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APPLEDORE EARM 




BY 


C' ' 


KATHARINE S.'-MACQUOID 


AUTHOR OF 


“AN OLD COURTYARD,” “MISS EYON OF EYON COURT,” 
“ELIZABETH MORLEY,” ETC. 



Girl'S' 

{■ APR 2B 


I S-V 


V3> 


NEW YORK 

LOVELL, CORYELL & COMPANY 

43, 45 AND 47 EAST TENTH STREET 




Copyright, 1892, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY, 


[A /I rights reservedi\ 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


CHAPTER I. 

Some little way above Church-Marshfield the high- 
road to the market-town of Parley begins to climb a 
ridge, the lower one of two steep sides to a green and 
fertile valley. At the bottom of this valley, a little 
way before the high-road turns leftward from the 
ridge to seek a lower level, lies Appledore Farm. 

The gables of the old half-timbered house can be 
seen across the sloping meadow below the road, but 
a thick yew hedge, set stiffly round the garden, 
screens the lower windows and the garden from any 
curious eyes. The vegetable garden can be seen 
sloping up the higher ridge behind the farm. Part 
of the home mead, too, stretches up the steep side of 
this farther ridge, and there are. timber sheds near 
the top. 

The farm-house looks snug and sheltered in this 
green hollow. A belt of tall elms on the left and 
the large and ancient orchard on the right protect it 
from violent winds and sweeping hail and rain 
storms. 

A lane leads steeply down from the road to the 
entrance gate, above which the yew makes a formal, 
0 


6 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


carefully-clipped arch, through which is seen the 
honeysuckle porch and a square lattice window above 
it, both set under a gable that flattens this corner of 
the old building. 

There had been all day in the air the breath of true 
midsummer, that soft, delicious warmth which in 
England, nowadays, we hardly look for till August. 
Mr. Reginald Bevington had been saying it was a 
pity to have so many good things at once, the fresh 
foliage of the trees and hedges, the wealth of wild 
flowers everywhere — for haymaking had not j^et 
begun — and above all the luxuriant beauty of the 
flowering shrubs, the garden at Appledore being sin- 
gularly rich in these. It was really too much, the 
young fellow said, to have all this natural beauty, 
together with an atmosphere enough of itself to make 
life delightful. 

“It would be far jollier, you know, to have it 
spread over the year; whereas just as the leaves 
have lost their freshness and all the beauty of form, 
the weather will turn beastly cold. I know it will ; 
it always does in July.” 

Mr. Bevington looked at his companion as he spoke, 
but Philip Bryant, who sat pipe in mouth on the 
bench beneath the porch, was so enveloped in smoke 
that it seemed useless to expect him to talk. 

The younger man continued his walk up and down 
the gravelled path that ran along the front of the 
house. It was a pleasant walk, and Reginald Bev- 
ington looked wistfully round him. He knew some 
time must pass before he saw it again. The many- 
gabled, half-timbered dwelling had once been a 
manor-house. The thick stems of the climbing 


APPLEDORE FAR3L 


7 


plants that in leafy June hid the red brick- work and 
the gray timber with foliage and flowers testifled to 
the years they must have been growing, while their 
exquisite blending of color was a living memory of 
the taste that had placed such varied plants together. 

A broad flower-bed stretched itself between the 
path and the blossom-and-leaf-girdled house. A 
Banksia rose clustered its pale yellow flowers against 
the tender green leaves of the Dutchman’s pipe, while 
the exquisite scent of vine-blossom asserted itself even 
above the sweetness of the honeysuckle on the porch. 
Mr. Bevington was nearer to the vine than the hon- 
eysuckle, as he stood still enjoying the fragrance. 

On his left another flower border reached to the 
tall yew hedge. 

The borders were filled chiefly with white pinks 
and wall-flowers and many-colored columbines, while 
an army of laced and golden-eyed polyanthus told 
that these were the spring borders of the farm-house 
garden. The fair-faced young pupil sighed as he 
walked up and down. His hands were clasped be- 
hind him, for he had finished his cigarette, his head 
drooped forward on his somewhat sunken chest. He 
was very pleasant-looking — not, perhaps, regularly 
handsome, but with that singular fascination of ex- 
pression which is so much more attractive than mere 
animal good looks. His sparkling gray-green eyes 
matched well with a rather wide, thin-lipped mouth ; 
his fair skin was slightly freckled, except under the 
waves of his warm auburn hair, almost as soft and 
as fine as a woman’s. He lifted his hat and pushed his 
hair aside, and the white skin it had sheltered looked 
as feminine as his hair did. His slender mustaches 


8 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


and his clean-shaven face added to the singular re- 
finement of his appearance. He spoke, too, as if he 
had spent all his life with well-bred people. 

He turned the corner of the house and came in view 
of a gay show of fiowering shrubs, many-tinted lilacs, 
tasselled laburnums — that seemed to stream with 
molten gold — red hawthorn, and snowy balls of 
Guelders rose. Here and there among the others 
came a double-blossomed peach. These gay shrubs 
bordered the bowling-green which took up most of 
the garden on this side. Mr. Bryant had more than 
once said he would root up the shrubs and pjant 
espalier apples and pears in their room, and fill the 
bowling-green with potatoes ; but then the fiowering 
trees of Appledore had a reputation, and besides, Ruth 
loved both them and the bowling-green. Large 
groups of rhododendron in full beauty filled up the 
corners of the grass-plot. Mr. Bevington sighed 
again as he looked at them. 

“ They might as well have left me in peace till the 
end of summer,” he murmured. ‘^It is so very 
pleasant here.” 

It was certainly very pleasant at Appledore. Mr. 
Bevington had been studying farming there for six 
months. He smiled now as he remembered that he 
had expected to find summer-time dull in the country. 
He had few resources besides hunting and shooting ; 
but three months ago Ruth Bryant had come home, 
and life had put on a very rose-colored aspect for the 
pupil. A few days after her arrival he had asked to 
be allowed to join the family breakfast, and to dine 
with Ruth and her father at two o’clock, instead of 
waiting for his solitary seven-o’clock meal. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


9 


After dinner he smoked with Mr. Bryant in the 
porch. When it rained the farmer enjoyed his pipe 
in the house-place, and Mr. Bevington retreated to a 
room called the study, on the right of the hall, set 
apart for the use of the pupils. 

‘^Confound it!” the young fellow said, “I was 
getting on so well, too.” He went on to the bowling- 
green and looked up at a window on the upper story. 
One of the lattices was open, but the space within 
was so completely shaded by a muslin curtain that 
he could not see into the room. 

He stood wondering whether Ruth Bryant was 
behind her curtain. 

‘^She usually comes into the garden at this time,” 
he thought. “ Perhaps she is afraid of the heat.” 

He stepped back to the path, and then on to the 
flower border, till he stood close under the window. 

Are you never coming? ” he said in a low voice. 
‘‘ I have been ever so long in the garden.” 

A shapely, well-formed hand, though not an es- 
pecially small one, drew back the curtain, and a 
merry voice said : 

“ Remember, I had to wait last Sunday. It is your 
turn now. It is not so very long, is it, since you 
came into the garden? But I’m coming.” 

“ Look here ! ” he answered eagerly, don’t come 
now! I must go in and write a letter, and then I’m 
going to the village to post it; and I’ll get tea at the 
hotel. Please do not wait for me ! I shall come back 
and wait for you in the orchard at eight. You’ll 
come out then, won’t you? It will be ever so much 
pleasanter than it is now.” 

The answer did not come at once. 


10 


AFPLEDORE FARM. 


“Very well,” she said presently, “I’ll come.” 

“ All right ! ” He went slowly back to the porch. 
Mr. Bryant had gone in-doors. The young fellow 
frowned. He could not find an excuse for delay in 
writing this very unpleasant letter. There was no 
help for it, and he went unwillingly to the study. 

In about an hour he came out again, smoking a 
cigar, with the letter in his hand. 

The slam of the front door echoed aU over the old 
oak-panelled house. As the sound died away a door 
opened in the long bedroom gallery and a tall girl 
came out. She walked with a firm step, which 
seemed out of harmony with her pensive expression, 
and passed swiftly down the broad staircase, dark 
at the landing, where it turned, from the absence of 
a window. 

A small, slit-like opening beside the entrance door 
showed that the walls of the hall were oak-panelled 
like those of the bedroom gallery. It also showed 
four doors, one on either side of the hall and one on 
each side of the staircase, which projected forward, 
thereby taking a considerable portion off the hall 
itself. Ruth Bryant cautiously opened a door on her 
right, and went quietly into a long, low room with 
windows at either end. The sunshine came stream- 
ing in through a half -opened lattice, but for all that 
a cheerful fire was burning on the hearth at the 
farther end of the large room; indeed, a fire was 
never unwelcome at Appledore. The walls were 
thick and well built, still, even when closed, the old 
lattices let in plenty of air ; and the ancient doors, 
which hung crookedly on their hinges, were not 
screened by any curtains from draughts. The win- 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


11 


dows were curtained, but the heavy green cloth folds 
were so old that they suggested damp rather than 
comfort. 

Mr. Bryant was seated in a high-backed arm-chair 
near the hearth, and, as his daughter expected, was 
sound asleep. The girl took a chair and placed her- 
self opposite to him, so that the light from the back 
window fell full on her face, while the glow from the 
burning logs made vivid contrasts of colors on her 
dark blue gown, and brought out the sunny lights in 
her rich brown hair. Ruth’s hair waved over her 
clear white forehead in a broad, sculpturesque fashion 
of its own, and from the thickness of the loose coils 
at the back of her head it seemed to be very abun- 
dant. Her head was square and well shaped and 
her features were regular. She had a singularly 
beautiful mouth, full of character, and with curves 
that indicated a sense of humor. Her eyes looked 
sometimes hazel and sometimes gray, according to 
the light that fell on them; but it is impossible to 
paint in words the charm of her face — of its con- 
stantly varying expression — or the dignity of her 
graceful figure. She looked like a young Juno as 
she sat still, her dark eyes bent tenderly on the burn- 
ing logs as if she saw among them the face she loved. 
She started. Her father groaned in his sleep ; then 
he muttered : 

‘^It means ruin — nothing else,” and then came an- 
other groan. 

Ruth’s face grew sad. She was only twenty, and 
at twenty girls sometimes have little thought to spare 
from themselves. Till lately she had only had her 
father to care for, and her warm, loving nature had 


12 


APPLEDORE FAR3L 


spent itself in devotion to this only parent. Her 
mother had died years ago, and till she was seventeen 
Ruth had passed most of her day-time with her 
grandfather and tutor, Stokesay. The girl had 
looked up to her grandfather as a great scholar, and 
also as a sound adviser in any practical or mental 
difficulty ; but Mr. Stokesay had been a cold, repres- 
sive teacher rather than an affectionate grandfather, 
and the ardent-natured child would not have dared 
to fling her arms round his neck and kiss him, as 
she used to kiss and pet her father. 

Now, as she sat looking at Philip Bryant, she 
sighed. His face was like hers. It usually bore the 
same bright and sanguine expression, but now his 
cheeks were drawn as if with pain, and his benevo- 
lent forehead was furrowed with lines which the 
painfully upraised eyebrows seemed to press more 
closely together. 

Ruth fancied that some hidden sorrow was sud- 
denly revealed to her in this unusual expression, and 
she instinctively looked away. That wrung, grief- 
stricken look reminded her how uneasy she had felt 
last year, when for nearly a week her father had 
been silent and depressed. She had questioned him 
then, and he had laughed and had told her she fan- 
cied things. He asked her to ride with him, by way 
of raising her spirits. He had been brighter after- 
ward, but Ruth had not been satisfied ; and one day 
when an old friend, Mr. Clifford, came over from 
Purley she questioned him on the subject. Mr. 
Clifford was a land surveyor, and Ruth had gathered 
that he came to see her father on business. She was 
always so merry and full of spirits that Mr. Clifford 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


13 


was taken by surprise. Then he laughed at her seri- 
ous question. 

Do not you bother your head about business,” he 
said. “Your father is out of sorts just now perhaps, 
and the best thing you can do is to keep him amused. 
I dare say you’ll not find that difficult.” 

Ruth was pleased, for she was a little proud of her 
power over her father. She knew that he was always 
ready to laugh at her sunshiny way of dealing with 
small vexations. 

She had noticed that after this talk Mr. Clifford 
came much oftener to Appledore. She enjoyed the 
change which his visits brought into her uneventful 
life. He had lent her books since her grandfather’s 
death, and he now brought them more frequently, as 
he discovered her fondness for books of more modern 
date and of lighter tone than those which her grand- 
father had left her when he died. She liked the old 
ones too; but she enjoyed talking over Mr. Clifford’s 
books with him, and often had a warm discussion in 
defence of some favorite character in a story. But 
last December a sudden check had come to this new 
pleasure. Her father’s sister, Mrs. Whishaw, Ruth’s 
only aunt, was taken suddenly ill; and her young 
daughter Polly wrote an imploring letter asking Ruth 
to come and help her nurse her mother. Mr. Bryant 
was anxious that Ruth should go. He told her to 
stay as long as she was needed. She was greatly 
surprised, soon after her arrival at Mrs. Whishaw’s, 
to learn that her father had taken a pupil. Mr. Bry- 
ant wrote that he was glad for her to be away, as 
the young fellow took up so much of his time. Ruth 
had felt curious, and she wished to be at home again. 


14 


APPLEDORE FAP31 


It seemed to her that this Mr. Bevington must make 
life far more amusing at Appledore. Mr. Bryant 
told her the pupil gave a good deal of trouble in the 
house, as he dined late and took all his meals sepa- 
rately. Ruth had to stifle her curiosity. Her cous- 
in’s delicate health had suffered from the anxiety 
and the strain caused by her mother’s illness and 
slow recovery ; and Ruth could not help being aware 
that her own health and strength, and a certain nat- 
ural aptitude for nursing which she had developed 
during her grandfather’s last illness, made her help 
necessary to Mrs. Whishaw. Indeed, when at last 
the time for parting came, her cousin Polly told her 
tearfully that she did not know how she should get 
on without her. 

As Ruth travelled homeward she told herself that 
if she had helped Polly she had also learned many 
new lessons in her aunt’s home. She wondered why 
she had never been taught the careful, thrifty ways 
which seemed to come naturally to her cousin Polly ; 
and yet she had noticed that, with all this care, there 
was not any pinching or meanness. She had even 
thought that the housekeeping was more reflned and 
the fare more varied than it was at Appledore: She 
promised herself to teach the cook, and also the self- 
contented housemaid, Bridget, some of the ways she 
had noticed during this three-months’ stay at her 
aunt’s. 

Ruth reached home and made acquaintance with 
the pupil; and very soon a new and overpowering 
feeling took the place of all her thoughts and resolu- 
tions. It drove away her sleep and robbed her of 
her usual hearty appetite. Her father teased her 


APPLEDORE EARM. 


15 


about her fits of silence, and asked whether she had 
found a sweetheart at Mrs. Whishaw’s. Ruth felt 
weak and languid, and yet at times she was so wildly 
happy that she was afraid of her own feelings. 

^ Mr. Clifford had called to welcome her home again, 
but Ruth was impatient to join Mr. Bevington in the 
garden. She received her old friend coldly, and felt 
glad when he went away. He had come very seldom 
since that visit, but the girl knew that he now and 
then saw her father. 

She had gone on for weeks in a state of dreamy 
excitement. The hours of the day seemed valueless 
that were not spent with Mr. Bevington. Sometimes 
she wondered what this change in her meant, but 
she so rarely thought about herself that she was 
happy to drift on in this exquisite hope and remem- 
brance. 

One day her mother’s nurse, Mrs. Voce, who had 
also been her grandfather’s housekeeper, came to 
Appledore to see Ruth. When the old woman rose 
to go away she looked hard at the girl and held her 
hand in hers. 

“ I beg pardon, Miss Bryant,” she said, but there’s 
no one else but me to watch your goings on ; and I 
say, take care of yourself.” 

Ruth flushed deeply, pulled her hand away, and 
left Sally Voce to go alone to the gate. She was 
desperately angry, not so much at the old woman’s 
presumption as because the warning had suddenly 
opened her own eyes. She ran up to her room and 
hid her face in her hands. Her innate modesty was 
revolted by the discovery suddenly forced on her that 
she loved — loved, too, before a word of love had been 


16 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


spoken to win hers in return. At first she felt that 
she could not see Mr. Bevington again, for surely he 
must have been as quick-sighted as Sally Voce had 
been; and then she began to wonder what the old 
woman had meant by her hint. If she had been 
sensible and patient she might have asked her. She 
questioned herself about Mr. Bevington’s attentions. 
She was so ignorant of life that it was possible he 
had only talked to her as he would have talked to 
any other girl. There was no one living near Apple- 
dore with whom he could talk so freely or probably 
she would not have had so much of his company. 
The poor girl upbraided herself for her weakness, 
and then when she recalled the young fellow’s looks 
and words it seemed to her that he must care specially 
for her. She determined to be more on her guard, 
to seem colder, and to avoid the chance of being 
alone with him. She had persevered in this for a 
week, till she feared he had observed the change. 
She looked across at her father ; she was sure he had 
not noticed anything between her and his pupil ; and 
then she wondered whether this unusually late meet- 
ing in the orchard had been planned by Mr. Bevington 
in order to call her to account. 


CHAPTER II. 


A SMALL wicket gate on the right of the porch led 
into a little alley or passage, and at the end of this 
another gate led into the pleasant green orchard. 
The orchard was very large, and stretched away to 
the high-road on the right of the farm-house, and was 
screened hy a continuation of the high yew hedge till 
it approached the farm buildings; then the hedge 
became more rural in character, and just now looked 
like a tangle of wild roses. 

The fruit trees were old and gray, and their lichen- 
covered boughs were old and twisted; but already 
the immature fruit — apples, pears, and plums — prom- 
ised a plentiful harvest. 

It was growing dusk when Ruth opened the inner 
gate and came into this green pleasaunce; for the 
apple-trees stretched out long, crooked branches that 
intercepted the declining light, and the girl started 
as a man in a smockfrock came out of the deep 
shadow with a sprig of green between his lips. 

“ Good-evening to you, miss.” He pulled his fore- 
lock as he spoke. 

“Is it you, John?” Ruth said, laughing. “You 
gave me a fright. I took you for a tramp. ” 

John Bird, a slouching, heavy-footed ploughman, 
lifted his hat and began to scratch his red head. 
“ Frightened at I ! Lord ! was • vou, miss? ” He 
2 17 


18 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


chuckled. ‘VA tramp wunnot find it a joke to climb 
that there hedge, an’ a must climb, unless him corned 
across the farm-yard. Good-night t’ye. Miss Ruth ! ” 
He began to shuffle toward the gate by which the girl 
had come in, and then he stopped again. “Miss’ll 
find it plaguey moist in the orchard. There hev 
been a doo as heavy as a two-hours’ rain shower.” 

“All right, John!” Ruth gave him a pleasant 
smile. “Good-night! . Tell Susan that if she can 
manage to come round on Saturday there will be 
something for her.” 

^“Good-night! and thank ye, miss.” John closed 
the gate behind him and went up the little alley. 

“ She be a trump— that she be,” he said to himself. 
“More’n one as I’ve knowed would ha’ said, ‘What 
may you be doin’ of in the orchard at this time o’ 
day, John?’ but not Miss Ruth — not she! Even if 
she had ha’ guessed at it she’d never ha’ grudged a 
poor man a few happles or a tatur. My belief, she’d 
ha’ been pleased of his chance o’ gettin’ a few. Bless 
her ! she’s alwa^^s cheerful, is Miss Ruth. The sight 
on she be enough to warm a chap — ‘a salve for sore 
eyes,’ the missus says.” 

It is possible that at another time Ruth might have 
been puzzled by John Bird’s presence in the orchard, 
but now she walked on the soft, deep grass under the 
trees without giving him a second thought. The 
yew hedge was too thick to see through, but on the 
right the orchard was parted from the angle of the 
high-road by an up-sloping meadow; and the hedge 
between this meadow and the orchard was a dwarf 
hawthorn, over which, as she stood on the bank, 
Ruth could easily see passers-by on the road before 


APPLEDOEE FARM. 


10 


they reached the protecting screen of yew which 
made the middle of the orchard such a secluded 
meeting-place. Ruth smiled, and stepped quickly 
down from the hedge-bank. Mr. Bevington was 
coming along the road, but he could not have seen 
her ; he was looking at a field of oats on the other 
side of the way. The briars, covered now with pale, 
blushing, golden-hearted blossoms, hid an old disused 
gate nearer the farm end of the orchard. Ruth fan- 
cied the gate had been nailed up, and she wished she 
could open it. It seemed so hard on Mr. Bevington 
after his long tiring walk to have to go round to the 
entrance at the back of the farm-yard. She wondered 
why he had not come in by the lane that led down to 
the house from the road. 

In a few minutes the briars began to shake vio- 
lently, and then briars and the half-hidden gate were 
pushed inward with a sudden jerk that scattered the 
faintly-tinted blossoms and sent their petals fiying 
over the grass. 

Ruth stood under the trees, silent and a little 
startled by the young fellow’s vehemence. He 
stopped to replace the gate, which he had almost 
forced from its rusted hinges, and then he came on to 
where she stood. 

“ You are a good girl,” he said gayly. Have you 
been waiting long? ” 

She glanced saucily at him. 

‘‘ I should not have waited long, but I have only 
just come.” 

He looked at her gravely, and as she smiled at him 
he took her hand in his and held it firmly. 

“ I want to know what has come to you. Why 


20 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


have you changed to me? I do not think I have 
offended you. You are not touchy or small-minded. 
You would not take offence at nothing, would you? 
What is it? Won’t you tell me, Ruth? ” 

The tone of his words thrilled through her. She 
could not hide the sudden joy that filled her, and her 
eyes fell under the glow she saw in his. She tried 
to look up, but it seemed as if she could not. 

“You will tell me, you sweetest girl! ” His voice 
had a yet more tender tone ; he was thinking how 
beautiful Ruth looked as she stood with flushed 
cheeks and downcast eyes listening to him. “ Ah ! ” 
he went on softly, “ if you knew what I have to tell 
you, you would have been kinder to me instead of 
colder these last days.” 

“ I am not vexed with you,” she said shyly; “you 
have not offended me. ” 

He took both her hands in one of his and put his 
free arm round her waist. 

Ruth shivered at his touch ; it frightened her, and 
yet she loved him more than ever. She was so in- 
tensely grateful to him for this assurance of his love 
that she could not vex him by drawing herself away. 

He drew her still closer, and passionately kissed 
her glowing cheek. At this Ruth broke away from 
him in alarm. 

“You must not,” she said, in a frightened, hurried 
voice. “ Yo, please loose my hand and let me go. I 
see now it was wrong to meet you here, Mr. Beving- 
ton, but I — I thought I might trust you.” 

He let go her hand and looked imploringly at her. 

“You are right, dearest girl, I ought not to have 
been so abrupt; it has all been too sudden for you. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


21 


You see, darling Ruth, I have been trying for days 
to find you alone to tell you how I love you, and you 
have not given me one chance. I only thought of 
my own feelings just now. Ah ! if you knew how 
dearly I love you, you would take some pity on a 
fellow. Can’t you give me a crumb of comfort? 
Won’t you say you love me before we say good-by? ” 

“Good-by?” the girl stared at him with fright- 
ened eyes, and he saw her love shining in their liquid 
depths. 

“You darling!” he whispered, as he bent over 
her, “you will own that you do not want to lose me? 
You care for me enough, don’t you, to wish me to 
stay at the farm? ” 

“You are not going away?” she said in a sad, 
trembling voice. “ Surely you are not in earnest in 
saying good-by? ” 

She looked at him, and her eyes, which just now 
had been so full of love, were swimming with tears 
which she could hardly keep from falling. 

“ You are sorry to lose me, then? You understand 
how my grief got the better of me just now. I may 
perhaps not see you again for months, darling Ruth. 
You will not be hard-hearted! Say you love me, 
my own girl ! ” 

While he spoke his arm had again twined itself 
round her waist, but in a less masterful fashion ; and 
as he pressed her to his heart and murmured his sor- 
row at this parting, Ruth’s answering sorrow broke 
down her pride and her maidenly reserve. She burst 
into tears, and sobbed out her grief while she hid 
her hot face on his shoulder. 

He soothed her and kissed her till her tears flowed 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


more gently. Presently she asked him why he was 
so suddenly leaving Appledore. 

He put his hand softly under her chin and raised 
the lovely, shame-stricken face. “Why, indeed? 
How can I leave such a darling?” he said petu- 
lantly. “I want to take you with me, and never 
lose sight of you again. Why am I going, you ask? 
Because, dear girl, I have prejudiced and tyrannical 
parents. Some busy fool has been telling them 
about your beauty, and they have taken it into their 
heads that you will fascinate me. You see, my 
precious Ruth, they have spoken too late. I have 
loved you from the first minute I saw you.” 

She quivered with delight at this avowal. 

“ Have you? Have you really? ” she said timidly. 

He looked fondly at her. 

“ I have a mind to punish you for the doubt in 
that question.” Then, as she drew herself away 
from him, he said, “ I will let you off if you confess 
how long you have — you have cared for me.” 

Ruth looked up with her saucy smile, but as she 
met his eyes her head drooped shyly, and her lover 
had to coax her to own in a tender whisper that she 
could not tell. 

“ I did not think or know about it,” she said softly, 
“till I knew it was there.” She felt that she had 
owned too much ; she drew herself out of his arms 
and put her hand forward as if to keep him away. 
She looked at him anxiously as she said, “ Why did 
your father and mother place you here? If they had 
inquired they would have learned that I lived with 
my father.” 

“ Poor dears ! they do not realize any condition of 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


23 


life except their own,” he said, smiling. “It could 
not occur to them — I am not sure that it would have 
occurred to me in their place — that — that your society 
would have been likely to prove dangerously attrac- 
tive.” Ruth turned away her head and colored with 
vexation. He saw the movement, but he went on as 
if he were unconscious, “You must be merciful, dear 
girl. Remember, they have never seen you. How 
could they dream that such a treasure of beauty was 
buried alive at Appledore? ” 

“ Do not flatter, please. I cannot bear it.” 

He looked surprised at her abrupt tone. 

“ My darling ! surely it is not flattery to say what 
I think!” 

He tried to take her hand, but she waved him 
back. She looked, he thought, unusually serious. 

“ Why did you try to make me care for you ? If 
you think their feelings are natural, surely you ought 
to have avoided me ! ” 

Mr. Bevington was completely puzzled. It was 
difficult to believe that this beautiful girl who now 
held her head so proudly erect and looked at him so 
gravely was the merry, sunshiny creature he had been 
living and jesting with, or the tender, love-stricken 
Ruth who had so lately been sobbing on his breast. 

“I am not a stone or an icicle, dearest,” he said 
gently. “ How could I help loving you and longing 
for your love? I would not give up the happiness of 
these three months for anything that could be offered 
me.” 

Something in his words jarred her, and yet she 
loved him far more tenderly than she did when she 
came into the orchard. 


24 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


‘^Have you told my father you — you — care for 
me? ” she said timidly. 

He looked away from her. “Well, no. I could 
not do that till I had spoken to you. Now that I am 
to leave so soon, there seems no use in talking about 
it. He is already upset, I fancy, by my father’s 
sudden change of plans ; because you know it was 
arranged that if I liked Appledore I was to stay a 
couple of years. I have to leave to-morrow, dear 
girl ; and it is kinder to say nothing about it to Mr. 
Bryant till I come again. Then, who knows what 
may happen? Eh, darling? ” 

He took her hand, but she turned so white that he 
put his arm round her. He thought she was faint. 

“ To-morrow ! Oh, it surely cannot be to-morrow ! ” 

The agony in her voice reassured him. 

“There is, I fear, no help for it. My mother 
writes she is not well, and she is anxious to have me 
at home. The fact is, I believe my father expected 
me to leave to-day. His letter is peremptory — ab- 
surdly so. ” 

He put his hand under her chin and raised her 
sweet, pale face. 

“ Come, sweetest, we have not many minutes left. 
Why should we waste them? Promise me that you 
will write to me, my own Euth ! ” He kissed her 
very tenderly. “ The joy of my life will be in looking 
forward to your letters. ” The girl’s pride had broken 
down. In the near prospect of parting she once more 
clung to him. She felt that all her happiness was 
centred in his love, *but still conscience would not be 
silenced. 

“ I have never kept a secret from father,” she said. 


appledohe fabm. 


25 


^^and — and he is out of spirits. I cannot bear to 
deceive him : mayn’t I ” 

He interrupted. “ If you were married, darling, 
you would have to keep your husband’s secrets from 
your father.” 

She laughed at this. She looked her own bright 
self again, he thought. 

That would be quite different. I should not be 
left to live alone with my father. How I could not 
help the consciousness that I was keeping something 
hidden from him.” 

I see you do not love me. You are selfish. Ah, 
Ruth ! if you loved me even a little you would be 
glad to do something for my sake. The success of 
our love depends on its secrecy.” 

She was silent; she looked still doubtful. 

‘^Well?” he said. 

“You will think me very ignorant and old-fash- 
ioned,” she answered quietly ; “ but I have never kept 
anything from my father. It will not be for long, 
will it, that I must keep this secret? ” Then her 
eyes filled with tears. Moved out of all reserve, she 
said, “Is it not wiser to say good-by and end it? If 
your people have these prejudices they will never 
consent to receive me, and I could not marry you 
against their will.” 

He bent down and kissed her, but he did not speak 
at once : he felt angry. 

“Think how young we are,” he said, after a little. 
“ Why need we frighten ourselves about things which 
may never happen? I shall have more power when 
I am older. Besides, I do not depend wholly on my 
parents. One of these days I must come in for my 


26 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


godfather’s property; and then, dearest, darling 
Ruth, I shall be my own master. Everything may 
have changed even by the end of this year. Tell me 
that you will keep our secret. To me it is an exqui- 
site pleasure to share anything with you that is only 
known to us two.” 

He did not wait for her answer. He clasped her in 
his arms and whispered that this was their last good- 
by: he had to leave the farm next morning early 
enough to catch the first train from Purley. “Your 
father has arranged everything most kindly, dearest ; 
come.” 

He drew her arm through his, and they paced up 
and down till the increasing gloom warned Ruth 
how late it was. Bevington remonstrated when she 
said she must leave him, but he was obliged to let 
her go. He stood among the trees looking after her. 
He was charmed, but she had puzzled him in this 
last interview. 

“She is a sweet darling,” he thought, “but she is 
only half -won. Absence sometimes makes the heart 
grow fonder. Well, we shall see.” 


CHAPTER III. 


Ruth found her father smoking by the light of a 
single candle. He did not often smoke in that room, 
but to-night he had wished to be alone, and there 
was always a chance that one of the servants might 
pass through the great stone-floored house-place, 
which, though it was called a kitchen, was seldom 
used for cooking. Mr. Bryant raised his head and 
looked at his daughter when she came in, but Ruth 
kept in shadow where she knew her face could not 
be clearly seen. She felt thankful that meals were 
over for the day. After high-tea at seven o’clock 
her father smoked a pipe or two, and sometimes 
drank a glass of ale. He usually chatted with his 
daughter before she went to bed, but to-night Ruth 
was impatient to be alone. Her head ached strangely ; 
she hoped her father would not expect her to talk. 
He rose presently and said he was going to bed. 

I have to be up extra early,” he added ; “ Beving- 
ton goes by the first train. Good-night, my lass ! ” 
He bent over Ruth and kissed her. Their faces 
were so much alike in point of features and complex- 
ion, and yet the expression was so very different. 
The frank sweetness of the girl’s mouth was the 
dominant expression in Philip Bryant’s; but his lips 
lacked the chiselled firmness of Ruth’s and his chin 
had not the decision which made hers so remarkable. 

■ 37 


28 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


Her forehead was broad and square also. Her fa- 
ther’s forehead expressed benevolence rather than 
much power of judgment. The eyes, alike in form and 
color, were unlike in their revelation of character; 
while Ruth carried her head erect and looked frank 
and fearless, her father’s head was often bent for- 
ward, and his glance was shifting and unsteady. 
Ruth felt sure she should not sleep, and she wanted 
to be up early, in the hope of getting a last glimpse 
of her lover. She was, however, so healthy that 
her nerves were strong. The excitement of the even- 
ing had tired her without creating that sort of fever- 
ish disturbance which makes rest impossible. She 
fell asleep almost at once. She roused early and 
dressed, but when she reached the top of the staircase 
she heard her father’s voice below, and she went back 
again to her room. She felt that it would vex Mr. 
Bevington if she exposed herself to remark. She 
had hoped to steal quietly down to the study and 
wait there till he came. She opened the window 
and leaned out ; she heard the trap come up to the 
front door, and there was a murmur of voices. Ten 
minutes or so passed, and then the wheels crunched 
over the road. Ruth did not hear any leave-taking; 
she guessed that her father was driving into Purley 
with Mr. Bevington. The girl suddenly broke down, 
and she cried bitterly, then indignantly wiped her 
eyes and tried to laugh at herself ; but her heart felt 
twice its size, and she was utterly dejected. 

“It won’t do to go on like this.” She checked a 
heavy sob. “ I’ll go and get some breakfast. I’m no 
better than the dairy -maid was ; and how I did scold 
her for crying after Peter ! ” 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


29 


She found Bridget dusting the sitting-room. 

‘^It bean’t seven yet, Miss Bryant,” the woman 
said, in an aggrieved voice. 

“Never mind,” Ruth answered cheerfully; “tell 
cook to set my breakfast in the house-place — some 
milk and some bread and butter.” 

Ruth knew that her lover would have breakfasted 
in the old-fashioned room, and she longed to be 
where he had been so lately. She was paler than 
Usual, but she looked very lovely as she took her 
place at the end of the huge table. The sun stream- 
ing in through the lattice opposite seemed concen- 
trated on her as the only bit of color in the room ; in 
its full light her hair looked a warm auburn flecked 
with gold. The window was three-sided. The lower 
part of the bay was fllled by a deep ledge, on which, 
later in the year, Ruth dried roses and carnations 
and jasmine flowers for sweet-pot; later yet it was 
strewn with lavender and basil and many another 
herb, set to dry and shrivel in the warmth ; and this 
process, which had doubtless been continued by gen- 
erations of Bryants, seemed to have created a per- 
manent fragrance in the old house-place, a fragrance 
that triumphed over the tobacco scent of occasional 
pipes Mr. Bryant smoked there. In this early morn- 
ing hour the faint fragrance was helped by sweet 
fresh air coming in through the open lattice laden 
with flower scents from outside. The yellow blos- 
soms of a Persian briar showed themselves in full 
beauty against the window. Ruth wore the blue 
gown she had worn yesterday ; it was associated now 
with Mr. Bevington. He had touched it, and the 
girl flushed as the memory of that close pressure 


30 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


came back. Last night she had shrunk from the 
thought of her meeting with a kind of fear, but now 
it made her happy to close her eyes and call back the 
sweet memory of it all. 

Only one fact troubled Ruth — the secret she had to 
keep from her father’s knowledge. It must certainly 
be wrong to break a promise, she thought ; and she 
knew that her lover counted on her silence. She was 
restless and discontented after breakfast, and for the 
first time it occurred to her that she had not enough 
to do. The time had gone by swiftly enough in these 
last weeks, while she sat at her window hidden by 
the curtains and Watched for Mr. Bevington. Ruth 
asked herself what she had done with her time before 
he came to Appledore. The answer came at once : 
she had read, and the thought of books brought the 
memory of Mr. Clifford. She turned from the thought 
of him. She hoped he would not resume his visits 
at Appledore. It would not be possible to talk to 
him as she used to talk. She should always be 
wishing that he was Mr. Bevington. Ruth would 
not have dreamed of seeking her father’s advice. 
She had been accustomed to see him consult her 
grandfather on all subjects, and until Mr. Stokesay 
died she had looked up to the unerring wisdom of 
the old scholar. It occurred to her that she had 
neglected for weeks her visits to the grave where her 
grandfather lay, beside her mother. She rose and 
opened a door beside the fire-place leading to the 
kitchen, and when she had given her orders to the 
cook she put on her hat and went along the road to 
the village church. 

About a mile distant, half-way between the farm 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


31 


and the church, she passed by a gabled cottage with 
its front so covered by a close-growing cotoneaster 
that its quaint half -timbering was hardly apparent. 
Ruth sighed as she looked up at the cobwebbed lat- 
tices, and then at a • forlorn, weed-grown strip of 
garden behind the broken fence. The cottage had 
been empty ever since her grandfather died there 
three years ago. Mr. Stokesay had built himself a 
study, and had added to the house in so many ways 
that when he died the owner raised the rent, and 
hitherto had been unable to find a tenant. 

Mr. Stokesay had been strict and silent, but Ruth 
had felt a reverent love for him. Little by little she 
had gleaned fragments of the story of the* tall, 
thoughtful scholar. Now she involuntarily pictured 
him as she had last seen him, pacing up and down 
the garden behind the cottage, dressed in a long, 
loose garment — more like a dressing-gown than a 
coat — his broad, thoughtful forehead partly hidden 
by the large brim of his brown felt hat. Ruth smiled 
sadly as she fancied she could still see him grasp the 
sides of this brim with both hands and roll them up 
when he was puzzling out a difficulty. He had once 
been tutor of his college at Oxford. He was poor 
but well connected, and it was expected he would 
rise in the world ; and then he all at once fell in love 
with a penniless girl, the pretty, ignorant daughter 
of a small farmer. Ruth knew that her grandmother 
had died when her mother, Kitty Stokesay, was a 
baby; and Sally Voce, her grandfather’s housekeeper, 
had told her over and over again how the sorrowing 
man had shut himself up with his child and his books. 

Philip Bryant had often said to his daughter that 


82 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


her mother had been much too good for him, out 
Ruth did not know that the marriage of this idolized 
child, whom he had educated up to his own level, 
had embittered her grandfather’s nature far more 
than the desertion of his family and his friends on 
account of the improvidence of his own marriage. 

Philip Bryant had been sent to a good school, but 
he had not cared to study; and his father’s improvi- 
dence and ruin shortened the son’s chance of educa- 
tion. The elder Bryant had been a small landholder. 
He was a favorite with every one, and when his 
troubles came his creditors had purchased the prop- 
erty — that is to say, Appledore and its belongings— 
and had allowed him to free himself from debt and to 
farm part of his own land as their tenant. 

When Philip Bryant married Kitty Stokesay she 
was only eighteen, and she was as clever as she was 
bright and beautiful. Mr. Stokesay could not help 
liking his handsome, happy-tempered young son-in- 
law, but his pride was mortified. He had fondly 
hoped his Kitty would have married into what he 
considered to be her rightful position. Philip Bryant 
came of a good old family, but he had had few ad- 
vantages; and Mr. Stokesay feared that he might 
have inherited his father’s extravagant habits. The 
old man refused to live at Appeldore, and settled 
himself in the cottage. A legacy from a relative 
had enabled him to make it into a pleasant and suit- 
able home. From the time her mother died little 
Ruth went regularly to school with her grandfather. 
Even when his last illness came upon him he still 
took pleasure in teaching the intelligent girl, and 
although she had occasionally demurred when her 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


33 


studies interfered with the long walks and rides she 
loved to take with her father, she had been too sweet- 
natured to persevere in refusal. 

Ruth to-day walked along to the churchyard, 
thinking how different life had been while he lived. 
She had learned little since his death. She had read 
Mr. Clifford’s books and she had nursed her aunt; 
and then, as the girl thought over the last three 
months, she knew she had only begun to enjoy life 
since she had known Mr. Bevington. She passed 
the post-office opposite the little inn, and then 
instead of following the straggling line of houses 
which called itself the village of Church-Marshfield, 
she turned into an up-hill road on the right, which 
led direct to the church. At this leafy time of year 
only a part of the old gray tower could be seen be- 
tween the elm trees that rose above the low stone 
wall of the churchyard. A little farther a flight of 
steps with a turn-stile at the top led into the grassed 
space, with its irregular and lichen-spotted stones. 
Ruth went on till she reached the east end. There, 
just underneath the three-sided ancient window 
behind the altar, was a small neat grave, with a 
headstone on which were the names of her mother 
and her grandfather. Ruth had been twelve years 
old when her mother died, but she had never ceased 
to mourn her. To-day she longed sorely for her lov- 
ing sympathy, and as she knelt beside the grave she 
unconsciously leaned against the headstone. Yes, 
she was sure that her mother would have told her 
whether, she was doing right in keeping this secret 
from her father. 

A gurgling sound made her start. What was it? 

3 


84 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


It seemed to come from the grave next ner moth- 
er’s. Ruth held her breath in a sort of terror, and 
then as she rose to her feet she smiled. 

Close behind the turn-stile, his rosy, chubby face 
pressed against it as if trying to squeeze between the 
bars, was a small boy of about four years old. A 
pinafore so entirely covered him from head to foot 
that he looked like a short brown holland bolster. 
He had been pulling so vigorously at the brim of his 
straw hat that he had wrenched the two outside rows 
apart from the rest, and had almost hidden his tear- 
ful blue eyes. Ruth, however, recognized him at a 
glance as Mrs. Voce’s grandchild. 

“Why, Georgie-porgie,” she said, “is it you? 
What are you doing here — eh, darling? ” 

She reached the turn-stile as she ended, and bend- 
ing down she put her arm round the little boy and 
kissed him. 

At this, he first screwed one rosy fist into his 
eyes, and then the other. As Ruth passed by him 
down the steps, meaning to lift him after her, he 
caught at her gown in terror and hid his face in its 
folds. 

“ Dwoant ’ee go, dwoant ’ee ! Georgie-porgie can- 
nut bide alone. I wonnut,” he said sturdily, assum- 
ing the first person, and looking steadily up at the 
tall lady. 

Ruth kissed him again, and then lifted him down 
the steps. 

“ But how do you come to be here all by yourself, 
Georgie — eh, darling? Where’s grannie? ” . 

“ ’Cos I wants to climb the big hill, an’ grannie 
says she’s other fish to fry. I’s going meself, I is,” 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


35 


he said sturdily, with a rebellious look on his red, 
chubby face. 

Ruth stifled a laugh. “Little boys can’t climb 
hills, Georgie; it wouldn’t be safe, dear, for you to 
climb up the hill.” 

“I isn’t a little boy now. I’s got nails in my 
boots,” the child said; and he held up his stumpy 
little foot so that she might see a row of thickly-set 
nails all round the sole. 

“That is grand,” she said, smiling, “but, Georgie, 
had not you better go home? It will soon be dinner- 
time.” 

^ He pressed his rosy, pouting lips together and eyed 
her scornfully. He was not at all afraid of Miss 
Bryant; she talked to him as if she were his own 
age, and the small mite had a supreme consciousness 
of the inferiority of girls. He had been born and 
bred in one of the southern suburbs of London, and 
was quite free from any trace of the reverence some- 
times still to be found in country village children. 

“I’s going up hill afore dinner,” he said. 

Ruth felt puzzled. The child’s home was some 
way off, and she doubted her power of enforcing 
obedience. 

“ I’ve got to And the way first,” the child said. “ I 
lost it coming along. Ho you know ” — he gave her 
a sly, half -wondering look — “ do you think you could 
find a way to grannie’s house? ” 

“ If I tried and* you helped me, couldn’t we find it 
between us? ” she said. 

He gave her a broad smile of approval. 

“I’ll help you,” he said, “when we comes down 
the hill. You’ve got to go along with me first.” 


36 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


He looked at her defiantly, as if to see how far he 
might presume on her patience. Ruth laughed at 
him. “Look here, Georgie!” she said, “we’ll make 
a bargain. I want you to take care of me as far as 
grannie’s house now, and then some day I’ll take 
^are of you up the hill. ” 

He snickered as if the proposal amused him. “ You 
take care of me?” he said; “how can a gal take 
'^are of a man? ” 

He let her, however, take a firm hold of his wrist 
'md lead him in the direction of Little Marshfield. 

What a drasp you’s got ! ” he said, looking up in 
Ruth ’s face. “ I didn’t know you was shut a drasper. ” 

At a turn of the road she spied Mrs. Voce hurrying 
along evidently in search of the truant, and kissing 
his red, firm cheek Ruth set him free. 

“Run along to grannie,” she said, and she turned 
back toward Appledore. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Mr. Bryant’s habit was to go round his fields be- 
fore breakfast and to return home at half-past eight, 
so that the postman had always delivered the Apple- 
dore letters before the farmer came in. Ruth started 
and blushed as she went forward to kiss her father ; 
she was so conscious of the letter lying hid in her 
pocket, a letter from Mr. Bevington. 

In the week that had gone by she had begun to 
get used to the burden of her secret, but it now 
weighed more heavily than it did at first. Mr. Bev- 
ington asked her in this letter to meet him in the 
Mill Valley, a secluded place not far from her home, 
but still not the sort of place she would have chosen 
for a meeting ; for the part of the valley he specified 
— the Gutter, as it was called — between two lofty 
hills, was singularly lonely. If by chance any one 
saw her there alone with Mr. Bevington, she knew 
there would probably be gossip about her, and she 
felt she should deserve it. 

Her father was so silent and preoccupied that he 
scarcely looked at her this morning, and her own 
silence at breakfast was unnoticed. When she was 
alone again she reread her letter. Her color deep- 
ened and her heart swelled as she went over the 
ardent words. She never thought of disobeying Mr. 
Bevington’s summons. Indeed, after this second 
37 


38 


APPLEBOBE FARM. 


reading she told herself she was a coward and un- 
triisting. He who loved her so very dearly would 
not expose her to the slightest risk of gossip. He 
must know the valley better than she did, for he had 
spent hours there fishing ; and he had probably made 
himself sure that the farther end between the hills 
was never visited by wayfarers. But she could not 
shake off a certain shrinking fear when at length the 
time he had fixed on, five o’clock, drew near. 

The way to the Mill Valley opened on the right 
some way nearer home than her grandfather’s cot- 
tage. A short road bordered by hedges led to a gate. 
When she had crossed the meadow beyond the gate 
the hills began to rise on either side, and a litle bab- 
bling brook came merrily dashing along its shallow, 
stony bed, as if it were in haste to greet her. 

At first the valley was wide and the brook ran 
broadly about half-way between the hills ; these were 
covered with closely cropped turf and dotted with 
dwarf bushes of golden gorse, which this afternoon 
had the sun on them and seemed to glow with 
brightness, varied by the occasional cloud-shadows 
that fell on the crossing hill flanks and added interest 
to the lovely scene. Here and there, high up on the 
hillside, were busy nibbling sheep, pale yellow blots 
among the tufts of brake that shared the sides of the 
hills with the gorse. Every now and then, on the 
right, a rift showed between the hills leading upward 
by a narrow, ever-mounting path, and from each of 
these rifts, or “gutters,” as the country folk called 
them, came brisk little streams, hurrying and foam- 
ing over the stones in their course to swell the brook 
that ran down the valley from the mill. The mill 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


39 


stood on some level ground nestled among trees on 
the left side of the narrowing valley. The huge mill- 
wheel stood idle, as if it were taking rest; and a 
group of little children were playing in the mill-yard. 
A little way beyond a single-plank bridge crossed 
the little stream, and Ruth went over it. Usually 
she jumped the little stream, or, when recent rains 
had greatly increased its breadth, she would spring 
across from one stone to another ; but to-day she felt 
timid and preoccupied. She was joyful at the 
thought of seeing her lover, but she shrank from the 
news which he might have to tell her. If, after he 
had described her to his parents and they had seen 
how much he loved her, they still persisted in their 
refusal to sanction the engagement, the girl thought 
that, terrible as it would be for both, Mr. Bevington 
ought to give her up. She should not think it right 
to persist in anything of which her father disap- 
proved, and she ought not to encourage her lover in 
disobedience ; and then she felt that it was too hard, 
too bitter; she could not give up her lover. She 
could set him free, but until he cared for some one 
else she must always love him. 

“I could not leave off loving him even then,” she 
said mournfully; “there is no one like him — no 
one.” 

The valley made a sudden turn, and as Ruth looked 
back the mill was hidden from her sight by the long 
flank of the hill w^hich stretched across the path, 
showing over its shoulder the varied peaks of three 
other hills ; while from the right, as she stood look- 
ing toward it, another lofty sunlit hill sloped down 
to the valley, its base crossed by the projecting flank 


40 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


from the left. The wind had risen, and, as it swept 
over the brake on the hillside, the backs of the fronds 
showed a bhie-gray against their bronzed surfaces. 
But to-day Ruth did not linger, though she dearly 
loved to sit and gaze at the scenery of the lovely val- 
ley. She knew she had still some way to go before 
she could reach the try sting-place named in the letter. 
She had to cross more than one plank bridge as the 
brook wandered at its own sweet will, now on this 
side the path, now on that, so close to the rocky up- 
land that there was no passage between. On the 
right the rocks became even steeper, but on the left 
the up-and-down pathway was bordered by shelves 
of rock behind which the hills receded farther and 
farther away. 

Ruth felt that she had grown old since she was 
last here. Then she had searched the rocky ledge 
for fairy nooks, and had found circles of fairy cups 
and fairy rings of seats. Ruth blushed with shame 
at her own childishness. It seemed to her that Mr. 
Bevington would think such fancies silly. She was 
now close to the end of the valley. Her path was 
mounting rapidly, and the brook lay some way below 
it. The water sparkled like diamonds in the sun- 
shine, as it fell over a succession of stones which 
barred and at the same time hurried its course. A 
dark ridge, purple with ling, rose steeply in front, 
and seemed to end the valley and bar further passage. 
A few steps beyond a steep track appeared on the 
right, leading up to the source of the brook, which 
came plunging and foaming down the purple ravine. 
Here the brook parted into two streams : one rushed 
on down the valley ; the other followed a path on the 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


41 


left, which, instead of mounting, turned suddenly 
and wound round the base of the hill. 

Ruth, took this path, and was quickly out of sight 
of the valley. Before her, at some distance, was a 
stretch of open country; but she soon took a path 
that led her once more between the hills. A rush- 
ing sound guided her onward; it was the noise of 
the waterfall behind which she was to meet her 
lover. 

She saw Mr. Bevington lying on the grass waiting 
for her. The noise drowned the sound of her foot- 
steps. She went forward shyly, though her heart 
was full of joy. All at once he started up as if some 
instinct warned him of her presence. 

My darling ! ” he said, as he clasped her in his 
arms, “ how sweet and good of you to come ! ” 

She smiled up at him. She looked so beautiful, 
her eyes were so full of love, that his passion every 
moment grew stronger. In his stately conventional 
home he had been asking himself the meaning of the 
glamour which had surrounded Ruth and had made 
her seem so different from other women. He had 
told himself that the attraction he had felt had been 
only a fancy, a fancy created by her fresh innocence 
and loveliness, and heightened by daily association. 
He knew better now. He thought her more beautiful 
than ever as he pushed her blushing face gently away, 
and then kissed it again and again. 

At first Ruth was passive ; she was so happy in 
being thus assured of his love. But presently she 
drew herself away and looked at him. Have you 
seen your father and mother? ” she said timidly. 

He took her hand in his as he answered. 


42 


APPLEDORE FAR3L 


“Yes, I have been at home with them, my dar- 

ling.” 

He was fondling her hand between his ; he seemed 
to have forgotten every one else. 

“ Did you — did they ” She hesitated, and he 

looked at her inquiringly. 

“ What does the darling want to know? ” he said, 
in a petting, tender tone that thrilled through Ruth 
and made her feel weak with happiness. 

“I mean, what did they say about us? Do they 
know you are here to-day? ” 

He looked at her sharply. It seemed impossible 
that such unsophisticated ignorance of life could be 
real; and then the clear truth he met in her eyes 
shamed him out of his momentary doubt. 

“No, they do not know,” he said. “The fact is, 

I found the house full of visitors — down for Whit- 
suntide, you know . I have not as yet had the chance 
of a quiet talk. I shall join them in town to-morrow, 
but I fancy I shall wait a bit before I speak about 
you. Do not let us waste our precious happiness by 
talking about them ! ” 

He tried again to put his arm round her, but Ruth 
moved farther away. 

“ Is it right for us to meet till my father at least 
knows of our engagement? I should be easier, and^ 
happier, too, if your people knew. I cannot alter 
that. Please, you must let me tell my father ! ” 

He drew her close to him. “My darling, that 
would ruin everything. Your father is proud, and 
he would consider it his duty to tell my father of our 
attachment. He does not know my people. I do 
not wish to speak against them; but they have 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


43 


worldly notions, and any appeal to them would be 
useless. Let us be patient, darling. I shall soon be 
my own master, so far as money is concerned, and 
then we shall be free.” 

Ruth sighed. She loved him more dearly than 
ever, but she shrank from the burden of her secret. 

“ You could trust my father,” she said. “ If I told 
it him as our secret he would not speak of it to any 
one. You will trust him, will you not? ” * 

She looked pleadingly at him, but he turned away. 
He began to walk restlessly up and down the grassy 
nook behind the waterfall. Then he came quickly 
up to Ruth at last, and taking her hands in his he 
looked sadly in her eyes. 

“You must blame yourself if I give you pain,” he 
said — his pathetic tone made the girl shiver with 
fear that she had offended him — “but it seems to me 
very hard that you should ask me to trust your father 
when you will not put any trust in me. No, hear 
me out,” for the girl put her hand on his arm and 
looked at him with eyes full of love. “ I know you 
think you love me, but not as I love you. I ask you 
to trust yourself to me in simple faith. You believe 
that I love you. That is a cold way of putting it. 
I love you so, my girl, that I would trust all I have 
to your keeping. That is how I love you ; and in 
return, you will not consent to keep the knowledge of 
our love to yourself for perhaps a few months. Ah, 
Ruth ! I fear you do not really care for me. It would 
not make you very sorry if you never saw me again.” 

The pain in her face touched him. 

“If I had not cared very much, do you think I 
should be here now? ” she said in a quiet voice. 


44 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


He took her in his arms again and held her there. 

“ Forgive me ! ” he whispered. “ I am ungrateful, 
but the truth is I am distracted to feel that we must 
part again. I hate going back to things and people 
which are not you, my sweet one. I long to take 
you with me.” 

She smiled at this. 

must preach patience now,” she said. ‘Hf you 
think it will only be for a few months I will try not 
to mind the secret, but we need not meet again in 
this way. There is every chance that even this 
meeting may come to my father’s knowledge, and” 
— she paused, a sob rose in her throat at the thought 
of her trusting father — “ it would almost break his 
heart to think I could deceive him.” 

There were tears in her tender, dark eyes, and her 
lover kissed them away. 

“I have a cure for that,” he said joyfully, as if a 
sudden thought had come to him ; we will get mar- 
ried — quite quietly, you know — and then if any gos- 
sip should reach your father about our meetings y(^u 
must confess. I am sure he will admit that a wife 
is bound to keep her husband’s secrets.” 

He looked so delighted with this solution of the 
difficulty, he kissed her so tenderly before he would 
let her answer him, that for a moment Ruth yielded 
herself to the happy dream. She was going to be 
his wife, and of course she must trust him ; but the 
feeling passed swiftly away, and she again freed 
herself from his close embrace. 

“No! no! That would be still worse,” she said. 
“I could not marry against my father’s will, and 
you would offend your parents past forgiveness. Do 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


45 


not let us begin by being undutiful. We could not 
expect a blessing on such a marriage.” 

“You dear little Puritan ! If you knew more of 
the world you would see that a love marriage nowa- 
days is sure to displease worldly parents, unless 
indeed the girl has money ; and that is just the thing 
I have no need to seek in a wife. If my godfather 
had only died when he was so ill in the spring I 
should have been now free to do as I like. Do not 
be prudish, darling ! Try to think oi:dy of the hap- 
piness you can give me! I know, sweet one, you 
would rather please me than yourself. Leave it to 
me. I will arrange it all, and then I will write.” 

He had flushed with excitement, and he caught at 
her hand as if he meant to hold it till she consented. 

But though she loved him dearly, Ruth felt that 
he did not understand her. 

“ I cannot do it,” she said. “ Forgive me ! Please 
do not ask me ! I know it would be wrong. I — I 
shall not change, but I am sure we had best not meet 
like this till you are, as 3^011 say, free.” 

“ That is absurd — monstrous even. Do you sup- 
pose I can get on without seeing you, you beautiful, 
cold-hearted girl? You cannot, either. You do not 
know your own feelings. If you love me you will 
be unhappy without me. The best way would be to 
take you away and marry you. You would be glad 
to have been made happy in spite of ^-ourself.” 

He looked as if he were in earnest, but Ruth smiled. 
She felt full trust in herself, and she trusted Mr. 
Bevington. She would have thought it a sin to 
doubt his respect for the woman he wished to make 
his wife, but such a thought did not trouble her. 


46 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


Her trust in him was equal to her love, and her 
ignorance of evil kept her free from fear. 

“We must say good-by,” she said, in an unwilling 
voice; for she could not bear to give up the dear 
delight of his presence. “ I shall be missed, and then 
there will be questions; and — and I can’t tell a story, 
you know.” 

“Not even for me, hard-hearted child?” He put 
his hand under her chin, while he looked into her 
eyes. “Well, I give in to you now. You trusting 
darling! you do not ask even a promise from me, 
and yet you promise to be true. I seem to yield now, 
but not for long. You will hear from me soon, and 
I know I shall find you more reasonable. You will 
write to me, my precious love? ” 

“ I will answer your letters,” she said shyly. Ruth 
was love-blind. She looked on Mr. Bevington as her 
superior in every way. She felt very timid at the 
idea of writing to him, and then her natural hope- 
fulness suggested that there would be something to 
answer in his letters. 

He kissed her passionately. She drew her hand 
lingeringly from his warm clasp and turned back 
toward the Mill Valley. She suddenly turned again 
and came back. He thought she had repented, and 
he went joyfully forward. 

“I do trust 5"ou fully,” she said before he reached 
her. “ I will be true to you, but remember you are 
'as free as if you had never seen me. If love will not 
hold you true, a promise would not. It is different 
with me. I cannot help my love.” 

She retreated as she spoke, alarmed at her own 
confession ; and she had fled away up the glen before 
he could reach her. 


CHAPTER V. 


Ruth was strong and healthy, both in mind and 
body; and her love was also strong. For days after 
that meeting in the glen she had felt that she must 
recall her lover. She could not bear the separation 
from him. Her heart ached with the pain of loss, 
and who could say, she asked herself, how long it 
might be before she saw his dear face again or felt 
his kisses on her lips? 

She could not sleep, she could not eat; and she 
was so dreamy and unrecollected that her father 
often had to speak twice before she took in his mean- 
ing. If she bad been less self-absorbed she might 
have wondered that her father did not remark on her 
abstraction ; but besides the constant thought of her 
lover she had to keep up a fierce struggle with her 
inclinations. Mr. Bevington had kept his word, and 
had written to urge a private marriage. He had 
planned that Ruth should say she was going to see 
her aunt, and that she should meet him half-way, at 
a place he named. He had arranged everything, 
and then he proposed that when the term of her visit 
was ended she should return to Appledore. He re- 
minded Ruth that she had told him her father rarely 
wrote to her, and that there would be little risk of 
discovery. 

Ruth did not hesitate in her refusal. She said it 
was impossible that she could so deceive her father, 
47 


48 


APFLEDORE FARM, 


but when her lover wrote again imploring her to 
meet him at the waterfall she found it much harder 
to resist ; but she at last found strength to say that 
she would not meet him till she could do so openly. 
He had, however, persevered. He had written re- 
proachful letters, telling her she did not love him, 
that she was selfish and cold; but Ruth remained 
firm both in her love and in her refusal to meet him. 
If she felt it so hard to refuse him when he wrote, 
what would it be face to face? She dared not risk 
such a trial. His love was so masterful, it had so 
strange a power over her, that she shrank from it 
while she longed for its presence. 

On Christmas Day she and her father dined to- 
gether alone, and suddenly Ruth awakened from her 
long preoccupation. She was looking across the table 
at her father, and she felt shocked at the change she 
saw in him. He had grown thin and haggard, and 
he seemed restless. 

She asked herself whether he had felt a change in 
her, and was unhappy at her want of confidence; 
and then she smiled at her own vanity. It was not 
likely that he had noticed any change. She could 
not expect to be as much to her father as he was to 
her. Was he so much to her? Ruth reddened with 
self-reproach. She had, perhaps, done her duty as 
usual, but she had not been living only for her father 
as she had said she would when her grandfather died. 
She had put Mr. Bevington first. She sat looking at 
the worn face till all the warmth of her nature rose 
in protest against her selfishness. It had blinded 
her to his increased anxiety, for there had not been 
that drawn look in his cheeks in the summer. 


APPLEDORE FARM.^ 


49 


Are you well, father dear? ” she said anxiously. 

He smiled at her wistful tone, and exerted himself 
to remove the impression she had taken; but Ruth’s 
eyes had been opened, and she wrote that night to 
Mr. Bevington. She wrote that although she loved 
him as dearly as ever, she felt that she must leave 
off writing to him till she could tell her father of her 
engagement. This secret correspondence was deceit- 
ful, and might easily come to her father’s knowledge. 

Mr. Bevington had written twice afterward, but 
Ruth had not answered him. 

It was April now, and the weather was chilly. 
Nine months ago Ruth had parted from her lover at 
the waterfall in the glen, but the time has passed so 
slowly at the farm that it seems a far longer period. 
Ruth was saying this to herself as she sat beside the 
fire watching her sleeping father. He had smoked 
his pipe in the porch, and had come into the sitting- 
room half an hour ago. He had settled himself in 
his chair, and had closed his eyes without a word or 
a look for his daughter. 

All at once he started in his sleep; he muttered 
something, and Ruth thought he said Clifford. She 
had wondered more than once why Mr. Clifford came 
now so often to Appledore. His visits seemed to 
cheer her father; he looked less worried when his 
friend went away. Ruth told herself this was an- 
other instance of her self-conceit. She used to fancy 
that Mr. Clifford came to see her, and she had enjoyed 
his visits before she knew Mr. Bevington. Now he 
scarcely spoke to her, and he did not offer to lend 
her any books. He was a land surveyor, and possi- 
bly he gave her father advice ; but she could hardly 
4 


50 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


fancy that he was needed so often at Appledore. A 
moan broke from the sleeper’s lips, and then a cry : 

Help, help, Ruth ! ” 

The girl was greatly startled. She went forward 
and put her hand on his shoulder. 

He opened his eyes and looked at her in a dazed, 
half-conscious way. 

“You had better wake up, dear,” she said, cheer- 
fully. “You have slept longer than usual.” 

He did not give his usual cheerful smile as he 
answered her. 

“ I wonder at that. I was having such unpleasant 
dreams that I should have been better awake. ” 

Then he sat silent, staring into the burning logs 
as if he saw something special in them. 

Ruth was summoning her courage. Whether it 
made her father angry or not, she was determined to 
share his trouble. She might be able to help him, 
or, if that was beyond her power, she could at least 
give him her sympathy ; and it must ease his heart, 
she argued, to share his burden with her. She be- 
lieved that it was a money difficulty, and in that she 
could help him when her next birthday came round. 
Sally Voce had said that her grandfather had left his 
money to Ruth when she came of age. Ruth knew 
that her grandfather had died suddenly, before his 
will was signed; but Sally Voce had told her that 
would make no difference. Ruth had long ago de- 
termined that when this money came to her she 
should buy her father a horse and a reaping-machine. 
His old horse was past work, and it made the girl 
nervous when her father rode Jack home from Pur- 
ley on a dark night. But if this trouble was debt, 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


51 


and she sorely feared it was, then the money must 
go to pay her father’s creditors. 

She was so shy at beginning that her voice startled 
her ; for it sounded hard and forced. 

“I want you to tell me what is troubling you, 
father. It makes me unhappy. I know that you 
are very much worried.” 

The firm tone made him feel weaker, and yet he 
was angry at having to yield. He threw up his 
arms in despair. 

“Can’t you leave me alone?” he said. “I told 
you you were fanciful when you asked me before.” 

Ruth went and knelt down beside him, and took 
possession of both his hands. 

“ Father dear” — her unusual shyness had gone ; she 
spoke cheerfully, yet very tenderly — “ I know there 
is trouble, dear. Just now in your sleep you asked 
me to help you ; suppose you let me be of use to you 
now you are awake, won’t you? ” 

He freed one of his hands and put it up to hide his 
eyes from her loving scrutiny ; presently Ruth saw 
tears fall through his fingers. She kept silence ; it 
was so terrible to her to see her father cry. 

“You had better leave me alone, my girl,” he said 
when he could steady his voice. “ There’s no use in 
meeting trouble half-way; you’ll know about it soon 
enough.” 

She waited, but as he was silent she said, “ Ah ! 
but I want to know now. Are we in debt, father? ” 

He sat upright and looked at her in surprise. 

“ Who can have told you that? Did Sally? I did 
not think she would have chattered.” 

“No one told me, dear. You see, I’m a witch” — 


52 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


she laughed brightly — “ I guessed it. I know you 
have had losses both with sheep and cows.” 

He smiled at this, and stroked her hair. 

“ No, no, my lass, I don’t deceive myself like that. 
Such losses as mine have been don’t pull a man down 
all at once if he’s been thrifty. It’s not my fault, 
Ruth, that I wasn’t taught to be careful. As long 
as I had your mother I kept straight. I lost my 
balance when she left me, and I’ve never got right 
again. She was too good for me, that’s the truth ; 
and God saw it, and he took her to a better place.” 

Ruth rose. She put her arm round her father’s 
neck and kissed him. 

“ Do you owe very much? ” she whispered. 

“More than I can pay for years to come,” he said 
sullenly. 

It did not seem a wise moment in which to make 
her offer, and she sat thinking what could be done 
to save expense. 

“I think we can do without Faith,” she said, “or 
suppose we send Bridget away. I can manage with 
Faith. She is a willing little creature.” 

“No, I can’t have you spoiling your hands,” he 
said, “and tiring yourself with housework. How 
can cook do without Faith? She helps in the kitchen 
work.” 

He spoke irritably, as if he thought the proposal 
unnecessary; but Ruth was determined. 

“I think better of cook than that,” she said, smil- 
ing; “and if she does not like the plan, will it not 
be as well to send her away with Bridget and get a 
cheaper sort of servant? ” 

“Save five pounds a year and be miserable,” he 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


58 


said. ^^That sort of saving does more harm than 
good. There, child, say no more about it; I’m not 
going to let you suffer. I’ve injured you enough 
already.” 

“How can you have injured me?” she said, 
laughing; “you are the best father a girl ever had.” 

He pushed her away as she tried to put her arm 
round him, and he rose from his chair. 

“After all, I had better tell you,” he said in a 
hoarse, strange voice that filled her with fear. 
“You’ll not calUme the best father in the world, I 
take it, when you know that I am a thief. Yes, a 
thief ! ” for she had forced herself to smile at what 
she considered exaggeration. “I have robbed you 
of your grandfather’s savings, Ruth; every penny of 
it is made away with.” 

He turned from her and leaned against the wall ; 
he shrank from meeting her eyes. 

“Is that all?” she said brightly. “I was just 
going to ask you to use it as soon as it was mine to 
give you, so you see it makes no real difference.” 

“ Child, you do not understand. Your grandfather 
was a learned man, but he thought he knew more 
than he did. He had left this money to your mother 
to do what she pleased with, and he did not alter his 
will till just before he died; then he put off signing 
it till he could get the doctor and the parson to wit- 
ness it. He never signed it, and the money came 
to me.” 

He paused, and Ruth stood silent. She hardly 
knew what to say. 

“ I never meant to touch it, but I had a run of bad 
luck in a way you little think of. I had to draw 


54 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


some money out to meet my losses, and then I thought 
that if I won I might replace all and yet not be a 
loser ; but no, fate has always gone against me since 
I lost your mother. You have not a penny, my girl. 
Your father has spent every farthing that was yours.” 

“But, father ” 

He put out his hand to keep her away; and then 
he crossed the room and closed the door behind 
him. 


CHAPTER VI. 


The morning was full of mist. The sky was hid- 
den by gray cloud masses, and these hung so low 
that rain seemed to be inevitable. Ruth was accus- 
tomed to disregard weather. She had gone daily to 
her grandfather’s cottage, through many a storm of 
hail and rain and snow ; and she started this morning 
without hesitation, though she took an umbrella by 
way of protection. Her father’s confession had 
troubled her, not on account of the loss of her little 
fortune, but because she was so perfectly exact in 
her own dealings that she could not realize that her 
father, her own dearly loved father, should have done 
this wrong. 

‘^He meant to replace it,” she argued. But she 
could not at once reconcile herself to the fact and 
that night she had slept very little. Her father had 
finished breakfast before she appeared. He gave her 
a hasty kiss and went out. Ruth felt restless ; she 
could not settle to anything. It seemed to her that 
the mere sending away of one servant would not be 
a very large economy, and yet she shrank from turn- 
ing herself into a servant — more, perhaps, than she 
would have done before she loved Mr. Bevington. 
He had kissed her hands, and had told her they were 

white and lovely. ” She did not want to spoil them, 
but she must do something to help her father. 

55 


56 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


Slie thought she might try to teach. She had been 
so well taught that she could, perhaps, teach others. 
This last idea came while she sat at breakfast, and it 
helped her to be definite. She rose from table bent 
on a visit to Sally Voce. 

In youth Mrs. Voce had been nurse in a good fam- 
ily, and she was supposed to be learned about the 
manners and customs of her superiors. She had 
given Ruth many a lecture on the subject of climbing 
gates and fences in earlier days, but the child had 
loved her in spite of what Philip Bryant called 
“Sally’s frumpishness.” Ruth often paid the old 
woman a visit, though she lived at some . distance 
from Appledore. Their relations had not, however, 
been so cordial since Mrs. Voce took upon herself 
that lecture respecting Mr. Bevington. Ruth remem- 
bered it as she walked along the high-road that led 
to Little Marshfield. On either side the hedges were 
powdered with green, and among the trees behind 
the hedge on the right the larches were covered with 
exquisite pink-tipped tassels of greenery. The birds 
chirped in an uneasy excitement; they evidently 
expected storm. The hedge bank was gemmed with 
blue and white and yellow, with here and there a 
tuft of rosy ragged robbin peeping out among the 
quieter flowers. At one point the road was quite 
fragrant, and Ruth stooped down to gather a bunch 
of violets for her old nurse. 

At last the dull, straight high-road ended. A few 
straggling cottages appeared on both sides of the 
way, and then came a couple of alehouses nearly 
facing one another, the “ Pig and Whistle” on one 
creaking sign-board and “Saint George and the 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


67 


Dragon” on the other — advance guards to the en- 
trance of the village. 

Euth turned into a gap between the cottages on 
the right, and soon reached a narrow path beside a 
dashing little stream. The brook came hurrying 
form a mill farther on, and divided about a score of 
picturesque cottages, each isolated in its own garden 
and shaded in summer-time by fruit trees, which 
already gave a fair promise of blossom. Some of 
these cottages faced the little stream, others were set 
at right angles to it; and for the benefit of the 
inhabitants on the left of the brook, who could not 
otherwise have reached the village, a small foot- 
bridge was placed across the shining pebble-bottomed 
water. 

Ruth crossed this bridge just after she had passed 
the little chapel. Mr. Bryant sometimes said that 
^this chapel was Mrs. Voce’s chief attraction in the 
village, and that the minister of the said chapel had 
a comfortable time in winter by Sally’s fireside. An 
opening in the hedge, already leafy in this sheltered 
spot, showed Sally herself sitting out in front of her 
cottage, knitting as diligently as a German halts- 
frail. She looked rosy and healthy. Her clean 
muslin cap was tied under her double chin by green 
cap strings ; her lilac cotton gown and apron were 
of one pattern, though plainly the apron was the 
younger — it was so much fuller of color than the 
gown was. As she sat leaning back in her high- 
backed rush-bottomed chair, her neatly-shod feet 
showed blue woollen stockings of her own knitting — 
good-sized, sensible-looking feet and ankles, suited 
to her tall, stout figure. 


58 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


Sally rose up at tlie sound of footsteps, and peered 
curiously forward. 

“Eh, Miss Ruth?” She smiled at the sight of 
her visitor; she was very buxom-looking. “ I didn’t 
think to see you this misty-moisty morning, as you 
used to call it when you was little. How are you, 
miss, and how’s Mr. Bryant? ” 

“How are you?” Ruth said. “You look as well 
as possible, in spite of the mist. I did not fancy 
you would sit outside such a morning, though.” 

“ I must have the air, miss. If your poor grand- 
father would have took advice from me and had 
taken the air, instead of sitting in that stuffy library 
he thought so much of from morning till night, it’s 
my belief he’d still be here.” 

She had pushed her chair toward Miss Bryant, 
and then, seeing that Ruth did not accept it, she 
went on, “ Will you walk inside, miss? ” 

It was an ordinary one-storied cottage, with a neat 
parlor in front and a kitchen behind; but Mrs. Voce 
had persuaded her landlord to add a shed at the back 
of the kitchen, which greatly increased her comfort. 
The walls of her parlor were papered, and an old 
bureau in one corner on which stood bits of old 
china, a few chairs quaint enough to be coveted by 
a collector, gave a certain distinction to the room. 

Mrs. Voce drew forward an easy-chair which had 
once belonged to Mr. Stokesay, and which the farmer 
had given her; but when Ruth had seated herself 
she did not find it so easy to speak as she had thought 
it would be. 

It was so difficult to announce her intention with- 
out seeming to blame her father. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


59 


Mrs. Voce waited a few minutes, then she said: 

“ Have you seen Mr. Clifford lately, Miss Ruth? ” 

Ruth raised her eyebrows in wonder, Mr. Clifford 
was so very far from her thoughts. 

No, I have not seen him. I believe he has been 
at the farm.” 

“ He’s a good man, miss, and he would be a good 
friend to you if you would let him.” 

“Never mind Mr. Clifford, Sally; I want to ask 
you something. I want you to tell me if you know 
how people get engagements. I mean as governesses 
or companions.” 

Mrs. Voce looked sharply at Ruth and slowly folded 
her fat hands in her lap. 

“ There’s different ways, and some takes one and 
some takes another.” She blinked her small blue 
eyes at her companion, while her pink, plump cheeks 
quivered with curiosity. 

At first sight Mrs. Voce looked unintelligent — a 
smooth-faced, easy-going woman — but a closer read- 
ing showed a parsimonious and persevering mouth 
and a determined chin, that matched better with 
Sally’s sharp tongue than her placid, comfortable 
general aspect did. She was, like many other women, 
full of contradictions. She grudged the payment of 
an extra sixpence to any one she employed, and to a 
begging tramp of whom she knew nothing she would 
be generous in the way of food and clothing. Her 
husband had died years ago, so had her only child. 
He had left a young wife, with an infant and very 
little to live on; and when any one taxed Mrs. Voce 
with stinginess she excused it by saying that she 
was “saving for little George,” 


60 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


“ I want to know the best way,” Ruth answered. 

“ You’ll excuse me, Miss Ruth, but what can any 
one like you want to know for, if I may ask? ” 

Ruth had hoped to escape this question. Now it 
was put, she looked hard at the old woman. 

“We are not so well off as we used to be, Sally; 
and if I were to leave home and earn my own living 
I fancy one maid would.be enough at Appledore.” 

Mrs. Voce sat with blinking eyes and parted lips a 
minute or two without answering; then she said 
slowly : 

“ I’m sorry to hear such news. Miss Ruth; but I’m 
not a mossel surprised. Who could be surprised as 
knew the goings on there’s been since poor Miss 
Kitty and your grandpa was took to a better 
place? ” 

Ruth held up her head, and her eyes brightened 
with anger. 

“What do you mean, Sally? What has been 
going on? ” 

She thought the old woman had found out her 
engagement to Mr. Bevington, and she was deter- 
mined to silence her. 

Sally gave her a glance of compassion. “ You poor 
lamb! there is no one left to tell you but me, and I 
must take the chance of making you angry. You 
think maybe that it’s failure of crops, and losses of 
stock, and what-not that have brought this trouble ; 
it ain’t neither crops nor stock. Miss Ruth ; ’tis some- 
thing worse; ’tis betting and neglect of business — 
that’s what ’tis. But Lor’ ! how should you know? 
But there’s those as knows your father well, and ’as 
seen him at all the races round. You’ve only got to 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


61 


ask,” she said in answer to the girl’s look of scornful 
unbelief. 

‘^Hold your tongue!” Ruth said sternly. ‘‘You 
have no right to talk in this way, or even to listen to 
tales against my father;’' she paused and tried to 
quiet herself, she felt so vehemently angry. Pres- 
ently she said, as if the talk had not taken this new 
departure, “I shall be glad if you can tell me the 
best way to go to work to hear of any employment. I 
am shy of answering an advertisement, for I have so 
little opportunity of making inquiries about people.” 

Mrs. Voce had reddened at the girl’s rebuke, and 
she still felt sore and sulky. She did not, however, 
wish to confess her ignorance; for she was aware 
that a good deal of her influence over others depended 
on her assumption of universal knowledge. 

“ ’Tain’t, to my thinking, a good plan at all for 
you to go far away from home and leave your poor 
father to go to worse rack and ruin. No, miss, you 
might go away if you chose, and yet be quite near to 
him if you pleased — nearer to every one who cares 
for you. Yes, miss, there’s one as loves the very 
ground you walks on, one as would be glad to care 
for you altogether if so be as you’d let him.” 

A sudden rush of consciousness dyed the girl’s 
face and throat and ears even a deeper hue than 
Sally’s. It was plain to her that the old woman 
was alluding to Mr. Bevington. 

“I do not understand,” she said gently. 

The change in her tone puzzled Mrs. Voce. She 
had not yet forgiven Ruth for what she considered 
her daring, but this seeming meekness mollified her. 

“Ah! you know who I mean,” she said, blinking 


62 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


at the girl, who had turned a little away to avoid 
her companion’s scrutiny; “you’ve guessed right. 
Who could I mean but Mr. Clifford?” 

Ruth rose hastily from her chair. 

“You are dreaming,” she said; and she laughed. 
“ Mr. Clifford and I are good friends, but we never 
wish to be anything more to one another.” 

“Speak for yourself, miss,” the old voice said, 
with extra sharpness; “I know better nor that. 
Why, Mr. Clifford’s cared for you ever since you 
was a child of twelve or so, and he would have said 
so, I fancy, if that London lad hadn’t come in the 
way.” She gave a keen look at Ruth, but the girl 
appeared to be unmoved. “ Bless you, child ! I knows 
the signs. Sometimes when I’ve been looking out 
of the window at your grandpa’s I’ve seen you go out 
of the gate and meet Mr. Clifford. Maybe you’d 
give him a little nod and you’d pass on, but not he. 
He’d turn his horse and he’d stay there, h^xed like a 
post, a-staring after you till the last bit of your skirts 
was hid by the turn of the road. Look here. Miss 
Ruth, Mr. Clifford can help your papa much better 
than you can help him, and he knows the way, I bet ! 
Do listen, miss” — the girl had turned away and 
was moving to the door — “ Mr. Clifford has a beauti- 
ful house in Purley, and I’m told by them as has 
seen her — for the poor lady’s a cripple — that his sister 
dresses in silks and the best of everything. Then 
he’s so good. It was all along of he that my landlord 
built the woodshed back o’ this. He’s a regular' good 
sort — that he is ! And he’s got a-plenty to be good 
with.” 

Sally paused, completely out of breath; for she 


APPLEDOBE FAPM, 


63 


could gabble when need hurried her words, and she 
had sadly feared that Ruth would leave the cottage 
without listening to her eulogy. But Ruth waited, 
because she had something more to say. 

“ I hope, Sally, that you have not told any one else 
what you said just now about my father. If you 
did such a thing I would never speak to you again. 
Now good-by, and forget that you ever repeated 
such a falsehood.” 

She went out of the cottage and hurried on, not by 
the way she had come, for she knew several of the 
cottagers, and she was not in a mood to chat with 
them to-day. She went farther up the brook-bor- 
dered lane, and then took a turning that opened on 
the right, with an ancient wall on one side and a 
barn on the other. The side of this barn exhibited 
an elaborate amount of patchwork, the one part con- 
sisting of horizontal planks interrupted by a series 
of half-timbered brick- work, while on to this were 
patched short planks, going all ways. There was a 
good deal of varied color in the way of greens and 
lovely grays on this wood- work, but none to bear 
comparison with the rich, warm glow on the moss- 
grown thatch above. 

Two small figures, with quickly-dropped courtesies, 
barred Ruth’s way as she passed the barn. They 
wore straw hats and black stockings ; one had a pink 
frock with a gray sash, and the other a brown frock 
and a yellow sash ; both had their mottled arms full 
of bread. 

Ruth nodded, and then she wondered whether the 
father of these children had money to pay for the 
bread they were carrying home, or whether, like 


64 


APPLEDORJE FARM. 


herself, they would go on eating and drinking in 
ignorance till the day of reckoning came, and they 
found that every crust they ate was at the expense 
of strangers. 

She had by this time come out again into the high- 
road beyond the village, and she hurried homeward, 
full of anxious thought. It certainly seemed cow- 
ardly to leave her father when he was in trouble, 
but if she stayed what could she do to help him? If 
she went away she could earn her own living, and 
perhaps more than she needed for herself ; and she 
thought it would be very sweet to be able to help her 
father ever so little. A sudden thought of her lover 
disturbed her. He would not like her to work for 
money, she was sure he would not ; and then though 
Ruth was not a day-dreamer, she had a sudden vision 
of walking out in London, if she went there, and 
meeting him. A rush of sweetness chased all the 
trouble from her mind. She walked on, picturing this 
meeting with her lover. 

A horse’s tread on the road as its rider came up a 
side turning, the horse reined up at her side, while 
the rider’s ‘^Good-day, Miss Bryant,” made her look 
round and sha,ke hands with Mr. Clifford as he bent 
down to her from his saddle. She had once liked 
him very much, and although for some time past he 
had become uninteresting to her, she had never felt 
a shadow of dislike to him. To-day, as she turned 
and faced him, she shivered with disgust. 

‘‘I was on my way to Appledore,” he said in an 
indifferent tone ; “ shall I find your father in, do you 
think? ” 

Ruth looked at him as she answered, and his calm, 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


65 


set face and the coldness of his steady gray eyes re- 
assured her. It was evident that Sally Voce had 
spoken as she wished, just because the old woman 
had taken a dislike to Mr. Bevington. 

“My father is sure to be in at dinner-time; won’t 
you stay and dine? Then you are sure to see him.” 

His plain, sensible face brightened, and his grave 
smile spread over it till he looked singularly genial. 

“You are very kind,” he said, “but I am pressed 
for time. If I do not find Mr. Bryant in I must try 
again, later in the day, as I shall be in the neighbor- 
hood. I have a special reason for wishing to see 
him.” He looked grave as he ended, and Ruth felt 
that his visit was connected with her father’s trouble. 
Formerly she had looked on Mr. Clifford . as such a 
helpful friend, and now the old feeling of reliance 
came back. She wondered why she had consulted 
Sally Voce, when she could trust to such a much 
wiser counsellor. 

“Mr. Clifford,” she said, “will you tell me some- 
thing? ” 

She thought he looked vexed as he answered in a 
repressive voice : 

“Yes, certainly, if I can do so.” 

She hurried out her words, wondering at her own 
impulsive confidence. 

“ Will you tell me how I can help my father? You 
know about his troubles, I am sure. I — I think of 
leaving home as a governess or something of the 
sort. I feel I ought to earn my own living. Can 
you not help me to find a situation? ” 

She had fixed her eyes on him as she spoke. He 
looked suddenly angry. His red-brown face flushed, 
5 


66 


APPLEDOBE FAPM. 


and he drew his heavy eyebrows together as he 
answered : 

“ The very worst way you could have thought of 
to help your father. It is, I know, a great comfort 
to him to have you with him, whether he is in trouble 
or not. If I were you. Miss Bryant, I would give 
up the idea of such a thing. Now, if you will excuse 
me, I will ride on in the hope of finding Mr. Bryant 
in.” 

He made her a grave, formal bow, and trotted on 
to Appledore. 

Ruth drew a deep breath as she looked after him. 

‘‘How absurd! I do not know which was the 
greatest goose,” she said, laughing; “Sally for in- 
venting her love-story, or I who believed it. ” 


CHAPTER VII. 


Mr. Clifford’s pace slackened as he drew near 
Church-Marshfield. He had been greatly upset by 
Ruth’s proposal. He had loved her for years, though 
for some time past his love had seemed hopeless. A 
year ago, when Ruth returned from nursing her 
aunt, he found the girl completely changed. He 
had never been able to decide whether this change 
had been caused by Mr. Bevington or by some new 
friend Ruth had met at Mrs. Whishaw’s. Clifford 
liked Mr. Bevington, and they often rode together ; 
but he thought the pupil was too full of other pur- 
suits, and also too easy-going, to devote himself to 
Ruth; and yet he could not help feeling at times 
very jealous of Mr. Bevington’s opportunities. But 
the farmer had consulted Clifford before the pupil’s 
arrival ; and together they had arranged the plan of 
separate meals, and also that Mr. Bevington’s even- 
ings should be spent in the study. As a sensible, 
practical man, Mr. Clifford had felt obliged to ac- 
knowledge that the young people could not see much 
of one another. Clifford’s own experience had taught 
him that Ruth was not addicted to flirting, and that 
she had plenty of self-respect. It was not likely that 
she would encourage the attentions of a man in such 
a totally different position. But then, each time he 
saw her showed him that she grew more and more 
07 


68 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


lovely. She might be indifferent to Mr. Bevington, 
but could the young fellow remain insensible to so 
much beauty and charm? And he might try to win 
her love. 

With an indefinable perception of his friend’s care- 
lessness, Mr. Clifford had made up his mind to warn 
the farmer of this danger, when the news of Mr. 
Bevington’s sudden departure came as a relief to his 
anxiety. 

Mr. Clifford had seldom seen Ruth in the nine 
months that had followed. He had gone in October 
with his invalid sister to the South of France. She 
had fallen seriously ill on her arrival there, and he 
had stayed with her, although his business required 
his presence, and he had been compelled to engage 
an expensive substitute. When he returned he paid 
frequent visits to Appledore Farm, but Ruth was 
almost always out or engaged. She could not have 
said why, but since she had known Mr. Bevington 
she had shrunk from meeting her old friend. 

The idea of Appledore without Ruth had thor- 
oughly upset him. That so beautiful and innocent 
a creature should venture alone into the outside world 
irritated him, for the time, beyond any power of 
control; and he felt that his only resource was to 
leave her till he had recovered himself. He had had 
to take care of his sister Dorothy ever since he was 
sixteen. His father had been a prosperous farmer, 
and Michael had expected to help him and eventually 
to succeed him. He had had a good education at 
one of the cheaper public schools, and had been sent 
to an agricultural college. He had there developed 
an aptitude for land-surveying, and when his father 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


69 


died not nearly so well off as was expected, Michael 
soon found a post in an office in Purley. His talent 
and steady industry helped him greatly, but he had 
another quality which still more furthered his prog- 
ress, the rare gift of prompt and also unerring 
judgment. His self-reliance inspired his clients with 
confidence. If Michael Clifford willed anything it 
seemed more than likely that it would come to pass. 
The only subject on which his wishes and his self- 
reliance were not in unison, perhaps, was the winning 
Ruth Bryant’s love. He told himself that she was 
young, and that he must trust to time and to perse- 
verance ; but his hope had a tinge of fear. He had 
longed for a more spontaneous love. It would have 
helped him if he had been able to ask Miss Bryant to 
visit Dorothy, who could neither walk nor drive ; but 
when he spoke of this to his sister she said that she 
did not wish for the acquaintance. Dorothy Clifford 
was devoted to her brother, but she knew more about 
his client, Philip Bryant, than he would have thought 
possible. She thought Michael had done enough in 
the way of helping others. He had made himself a 
fine business, and his reputation had spread far be- 
yond his own county. She did not want him to drag 
himself down with the burden of a spendthrift father- 
in-law for the sake of a pretty daughter, who no 
doubt, so Dorothy argued, had done her best to 
draw Michael on. 

Michael Clifford knew that he was sure of a hearty 
welcome from Bryant, and that he would consent to 
his proposal for Ruth. But Clifford was proud and 
delicate. He felt shy of asking Ruth to marry him 
while her father was so much in his debt. She did 


70 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


not know it ; he was sure of that. He had insisted 
that his constant loans to Bryant should be kept from 
her, but he fancied that she might guess at the rea- 
son of his frequent visits, and he knew how little 
reserve there was about Philip Bryant. He could 
not bear to owe Ruth’s consent to her gratitude. 

He was skirting the orchard. Already he could 
see the high peaks of the farm-house gables. It sud- 
denly flashed on him that Philip Bryant was com- 
pletely ignorant of his attachment to his daughter. 
He wondered he had not hinted it. The farmer could 
not be blamed if he gave encouragement to some 
other likely husband for Ruth, should one present 
himself. 

He turned the angle of the meadow that lay be- 
tween the orchard and the upper high-road, and then 
went down the lane that made the approach, walking 
his horse gently down the steep incline. He knew 
that he was expected, and he was not surprised to 
find the farmer at the gate. Michael had always 
been fond of his old friend, not only because he was 
Ruth’s father ; probably, though he was not conscious 
of the fact, his affection for Bryant had deepened 
since he had been able to render him so much service. 
There are men in the world beloved by every one, 
not so much for any single virtue as for the unfailing 
sweetness and brightness that characterize them. 
Possibly Philip Bryant owed a good deal of the uni- 
versal liking bestowed on him to his winning smile 
and his sunny light-heartedness. He had unlimited 
faith in future possibilities. It never occurred to 
him that past experience might be a safer gauge of 
the future than the sanguine faith of his expectations. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


71 


They walked side by side into the house, and Bry- 
ant put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. 

“What should I do without you, Clifford?” he 
said. “Well, you will not lose, my dear fellow. 
One of these days I hope to repay you in full.” 

Bryant had given up betting since Michael had 
taken the management of his affairs, but the last 
harvest had thrown him back ; and as Mr. Bevington 
was to pay a handsome sum for his two-years’ resi- 
dence, the farmer had gone to a good deal of expense 
in furniture, etc. When they reached the sitting- 
room he pointed to a large brown book on the table, 
and Michael sat down and opened it. 

“I shall never keep my accounts to satisfy you,” 
the farmer said, as he saw how grave his friend was. 
“ I had forgotten all those bills till yesterday I found 
them all together. I wish you would let me hand 
them over to Ruth. She has a capital head for fig- 
ures ; she keeps her own accounts regularly — not by 
fits and starts, as I do.” 

“Does she? But don’t you think we had better 
get this book a little clearer before we hand it over 
to Miss Bryant? ” 

“Very ell.” Bryant was always accommodat- 
ing, always ready to give up his own will, except on 
one or two points. “ I fancy Ruth is out.” 

“ I met Miss Bryant just now on the Little Marsh- 
field road.” 

“Ah! I expect she had been to see Sally Voce.” 

There was a pause. Mr. Clifford pulled out a 
pocket-book; and then, taking a couple of notes from 
it, he placed them in the account-book. He was so 
anxious to save appearances that he had never given 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


a check to Mr. Bryant. He looked np with a per- 
plexed expression. “ I have entered them,” he said; 
then he rose and stood beside the farmer. 

“Thank you, very much,” Bryant said; “I will 
pay those bills to-morrow.” 

“Yes.” 

Michael’s perplexity was gaining ground; he 
looked distressed. 

“ I want to say something to you, old friend. Till 
I saw those ugly bills I had not meant to speak of it. 
In fact, I meant to talk about something quite differ- 
ent. Do you know, I think this continued struggle 
is too much for you.” 

Bryant’s lips parted, and his chin dropped. 

“I do not understand,” he said feebly. 

“I ought to have said it six months ago,” Clifford 
went on, as if the farmer had not spoken, “ but I was 
a coward ; and, besides, something might have hap- 
pened to improve matters. Well, it’s this: I think 
you will be happier and wiser if you give up Apple- 
dore.” 

Clifford’s lips had lost color while he spoke; he so 
intensely felt for his companion. If he had been an 
older man he might have shrunk from giving him 
this shock, but he knew that he had tried to open 
Bryant’s eyes in a gentler fashion, and that his 
cheerful optimism had made this impossible. 

“ Don’t let there be any misunderstanding between 
us,” Michael said; “I am willing that things should 
be as they are at present, so far as feeling goes, but 
suppose my life drops, then what is to happen not 
only to you, but to — to Miss Bryant? ” 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


73 


The farmer changed color quickly. He stood ner- 
vously rubbing his hands together. 

“I — I can’t leave Appledore,” he said, in a con- 
fused, faltering voice; “it — it would kill me.” 

Clifford walked away and stood by the window 
that overlooked the farm-yard. He saw Ruth come 
in by the side gate from the fields. In his hopeless- 
ness of getting the farmer to take a real view of his 
position he felt tempted to appeal to his daughter. 

“There is Miss Bryant,” he said. “She knows, I 
fancy, that you are in trouble? ” 

“Yes, she knows, but what good can she do? ” he 
said irritably. “ She proposed to send away a ser- 
vant, but I said I could not let her do housework. 
What do you say? ” 

There was a strange longing in Bryant’s eyes. He 
seemed to wish for something he dared not speak 
about. 

Michael Clifford came back from the window. He 
felt sure that Ruth had seen him, and yet she had 
gone on to the back door without noticing him. 

“ If I had the slightest hope that she would listen 
to me,” he said abruptly, “ I should ask Miss Bryant 
to be my wife. I should have asked her months ago. ” 

Bryant’s face beamed with his genial, winning 
smile. 

“And I have always wished for it, my boy.” He 
shook Clifford’s hand heartily. “Why are you so 
hopeless? ‘Faint heart — ’ you know the rest of the 
saying. I did not feel at all sure when I asked her 
mother, but I asked her for all that.” 

“You are still a more attractive man than I am,” 


74 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


Clifford said gloomily. “Besides, you have the 
happy temperament that would not be daunted by 
refusal. I had better be frank, Bryant ; I love Ruth 
so dearly that I dare not risk my chance of happiness 
till I have some ground for hope. Now,^’ with a 
sudden change of tone, “ good-by ! Think over my 
suggestion about Appledore. I could easily find a 
tenant, so that the usual term of notice could be got 
over. Do not trouble to come out with me. Good- 
by!” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Ruth had seen Mr. Clifford, but she was vexed 
with him for what she considered his want of sym- 
pathy with her plan for helping her father. She 
was not in a mood to be civil to him, and she had 
therefore come in by the house-place, and had gone 
straight to her own room. She did not think Mr. 
Clifford would speak of her proposal, because he had 
said that her presence was* necessary to her father ; 
but the girl had thought over her plan till she had 
become excited. The idea of holding back from such 
a sacrifice because it might displease Mr. Bevington 
she considered purely selfish, and she felt that she 
had already much selfishness to atone for. 

She had begun to wonder whether Mr. Clifford had 
taken his departure, when Bridget came to say her 
father wanted her downstairs. 

Ruth inquired, and learned that Mr. Clifford had 
gone away. She was puzzled by the summons; it 
was so unusual for her father to send for her. A 
dread of coming evil made her nervous as she went 
downstairs. 

‘^Yes, father?” she said, as she came in; ‘^what 
is it? Has anything happened? ” 

He looked at her with a vague suspicion. He 
wondered if she had any liking for Clifford. 

“ Foolish fellow ! ” he thought ; as if ’twas likely 
that a high-spirited girl would show a preference for 
75 


76 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


a man who never made up to her ! ” He decided to 
find out the state of her feelings toward him. 

“ Yes ; I have something particular to say. Trouble 
does not seem to lessen,” he said sadly ; but he did not 
meet her loving glance, he felt a little guilty toward 
his daughter. He was standing, and Ruth pushed 
him gently into his high-backed chair and seated 
herself beside him. He cleared his throat with an 
effort, but before any words could follow Ruth broke 
in abruptly : 

“I never can talk standing,” she smiled at him; 
“but, father, I have thought of a way of saving 
money, and of getting some perhaps for you — quite 
an easy way. I did not mean to speak of it till I 
had found a suitable engagement. Perhaps it is 
better to tell you.” 

He stared at her bewildered, and then he looked 
annoyed. 

. “ An engagement ! Do you mean, child, that you 
contemplate leaving home to take service with other 
people, with strangers? I told you I would not let 
you do servant’s work, even at home.” 

Ruth laughed. “Not service, father dear.” She 
put her hand pleadingly on his shoulder. “ Don’t 
think me conceited, but I fancy I could teach ; and 
you could not call a teacher a servant, could you ? ” 

“ I don’t know ; there is not much difference if you 
take other people’s money,” he answered gloomily. 
“No, my girl, I cannot listen to such a plan. To 
begin with, do you suppose I could get along without 
you? It would be better to give up the farm than to 
lose you in that way, child.” 

“ Give up the farm ! ” Ruth echoed dreamily. That 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


7'r 


idea would not have occurred to her. It would be 
the death of her father, she thought, to take him 
away from Appledore. 

“ There seems to be no help about it, unless some- 
thing unforeseen happens. Do you know, Ruth, that 
I am a mere cipher here? I cannot call a sheep on 
the place my own. Even the house furniture no 
longer belongs to me.” 

Ruth’s smile faded; her face was full of alarm. 

“ O father ! ” she said, “ you ought to have told 
me; indeed you ought. I do not really think you 
can oppose mv going away.” 

He was frowning at her. 

You are so wilful ! ” He spoke fretfully. “ What 
purpose would it serve, except to expose you to an- 
noyance and to make me more anxious and unhappy 
than I am at present? If you think that your being 
here causes the slightest extra expense you are greatly 
mistaken. You think a good deal more about econ- 
omy than I do, and I tell you the place would quickly 
go to rack and ruin if you were to leave it.” 

Ruth sat squeezing her fingers together. She saw 
that they must leave Appledore, and she longed to 
propose that her father should at once give up what 
evidently was no longer his ; but her urgency kept 
her silent. She was so afraid of seeming undutiful 
at such a time of trial ! If she were only free to tell 
him her secret ! She thought it must comfort him 
to know that her future was secured. Mr. Beving- 
ton’s last letter had assured her that he was as devoted 
as ever, and that he only waited for her summons to 
meet her in the valley. 

Her father rose from his chair. He went up to 


78 


APPLEDORE PAPM. 


the high mantel-shelf and aimlessly fingered some 
china cups that stood there. He began to speak 
without turning round. 

“One thing you seem to forget. If you were to 
do that sort of thing you would cut yourself off from 
any chance of a suitable marriage.” 

A sudden flush spread over Ruth’s face. She was 
thankful that her father still stood facing the mantel- 
shelf. 

“ I do not wish to marry.” 

He looked round quickly. Her tone sounded forced. 
He noticed her flushed face, and he thought it prom- 
ised well for Michael Clifford. 

“Another thing,” he said gravely, but Ruth saw 
that he had left off frowning, “ if anything were to 
happen to me — I am not long-lived, remember — think 
how I should feel if I died in debt and left you behind 
unprovided for ! ” 

“Please, father dear, do not trouble about me!” 
she said affectionately. “ I have had a good, sound 
education, and I am strong and healthy ; no one need 
trouble about me. And besides, father, I do not see 
why you need talk in this desponding way. I believe 
Mr. Clifford’s visit has upset you. You must come 
into the garden with me after dinner, and see how 
full of promise the fruit trees are; I never saw them 
so forward. The ‘ Louise Bonne ’ will be a sight of 
blossom.” 

He shook his head. 

“ You are wrong about Clifford. He does me good, 
not harm, child. I do not know what I should do 
without him. Why don’t you come down when he 
is here, eh, Ruth? ” 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


79 


I had seen him to-day as I came back from Little 
Marshfield,” she said simply. 

“Ah! I remember; so he said. He will call in 
again before he goes back to Purley, and leave word 
whether he has found a purchaser for the little bull. 
Will you not see him then, Ruth? It would please 
him so much ! ” 

Ruth felt startled. Her father seemed to be asking 
her to see Mr. CliflPord as a personal favor to himself. 

“ Yes, of course, if you wish it; but I really do 
not think it gives any special pleasure to Mr. Clifford 
to see me.” 

He fancied this was pique. 

“I thought as much,” he said, smiling in his old 
genial way. “ The foolish fellow has been so afraid 
of vexing you that he has overshot the mark. Why, 
child, he loves you dearly — I know it.” 

Ruth did not flush now; she looked very pale 
indeed. 

“How do you know it?” she said abruptly ; “or 
do you know it? Perhaps you have only fancied it.” 

Her eagerness for his answer puzzled him. 

Instead of teasing her, as he wished, he answered 
her directly. 

“ I had my news from headquarters. I guessed it 
long ago, but he told me so himself just now.” 

Ruth hung her head. She felt that her answer 
would pain her father perhaps as much as it would 
pain Mr. Clifford, for she did not believe he loved 
her so very much ; besides, she thought he must have 
guessed at her intimacy with Mr. Bevington, or why 
should he just at that time have left off coming to 
Appledore? 


80 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


The silence continued, and she felt that she must 
speak. 

“I am sorry,” she said, “but I do not love Mr. 
Clifford, though I have a very high opinion of him.” 

Philip Bryant laughed. 

“ It would be rather strange, my girl, if you owned 
to loving a man who has never said a ^vord of love 
to you. Bless you, child ! if you like him as you say 
the rest will come easy. I fancy Michael will soon 
get you to see things in a different light. It’s all 
right. You shall see him when he comes back ; he 
only meant to leave a message, but that is easily 
settled.” 

A panic seized on Ruth. It seemed to her that 
this had all been planned between her father and his 
friend, and that unless she protested at once she 
might find that her consent was taken for granted. 
A sense of friendlessness oppressed her. She had 
been accustomed to reckon on her father as so sure 
an ally that he would, she thought, have stood by 
her even had she been in the wrong instead of in the 
right. Surely she was in the right now ! Her under 
lip trembled with a vague doubt. It had been wrong 
to keep this secret, but surely not wrong to engage 
herself to her lover; and at the thought Ruth’s tender 
eyes filled with sudden tears. Ah ! if he would come 
and own his love to her father! That would set 
everything straight, and the secret might be kept; 
there was no need to trust any one else. A resentful 
feeling was fast growing toward Mr. Clifford. Ruth 
believed that he had set her father on to urge her to 
listen to his suit. 

“ It is not as you think, father,” she tried to speak 


APPLEDORE FAR3L 


81 


in her usual bright way ; “ I should have said no to 
Mr. Clifford, even if he had spoken to me himself. I 
could never marry him; and really, just now I do 
not want to marry any one. ” 

Her expression puzzled her father; he fancied it 
lacked the frank earnestness to which he was accus- 
tomed. 

- “ I do not want to press you, Ruth,” he said, ^^but 
I think you ought to know how I stand. I told you 
that I did not own a head of stock on the farm ; I 
might have said I hardly own the clothes I wear, for 
nearly a year — longer than that, perhaps — I have 
lived on borrowed money. I have been obliged to 
borrow for the repairs, also for the rent ; and the se- 
curity I have given is very unequal to the sums I 
have received.” 

Ruth was trembling from head to foot. A terrible 
sense of degradation had suddenly obscured the moral 
atmosphere in which she fancied she had lived. She 
seemed to hear Sally Voce’s accusing voice, and her 
heart sank yet lower. Was it possible that her 
father had flung away his money as Sally had said, 
and now wanted to use her as a means of restitution? 
But the idea was too shocking to her sense of duty 
to be harbored ; she turned from it and rejected it as 
a direct temptation. A quick remorse followed for 
having so misjudged her father. 

“We must pay this money,” she said; “we cannot 
go on living in debt, can we, dear father? ” 

Philip Bryant shrugged his shoulders. 

“ It is easy to talk of paying,” he said. “ Perhaps 
you will tell me how we are to do it — to pay all this 
money? ” 

6 


82 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


Ruth flushed up to her eyes. 

“There is a way, I think,” she said gently; but 
she did not look at him. She shrank from seeing 
the pain she knew he would feel. “Suppose you 
give up the farm and the house and — and everything 
to Mr. Clifford? He would no doubt And a purchaser 
for our things in the in-coming tenant. A farm like 
Appledore will certainly be easy to let.” 

He was staring at her. She thought he looked 
frightened. 

“And I should like to know,” he said hoarsely, 
“what is to become of you and me.” 

“That will all come right,” she said cheerfully, 
carried out of herself by the sacrifice she had pro- 
posed. “We shall not be allowed to want. I can 
work, and you are so clever, father, you might per- 
haps get an agency, or something of that sort.” 

Before she ended her father began to walk up and 
down the room with quick, uncertain steps. Bridget 
opened the door, put in her head, and announced 
that dinner was ready ; but neither father nor daugh- 
ter heeded the summons. 

At last Bryant came close to her, his eyes and 
cheeks flaming with anger. 

“ You would like to turn me into a servant, would 
you? I, who have been my own master ever since 
I can remember! How selfish you are, Ruth! and 
cruel to both of us; for you have been too much 
indulged to And it easy to take your orders from 
another person.” 

He turned away from her, and again walked to 
the farther end of the room, clasping his hands 
behind him. 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


8B 


Ruth followed him and put her hand on his 
shoulder. 

Please do not be angry with me ! ” she said. I 
did not mean to be unkind just now, only I did not 
find the right way to say it. Kiss me, father dear ! 
Say you are not angry with me ! ” 

Though her voice was full of sorrowful tenderness 
he had kept his face turned away from her. Now 
he pushed her away. 

“Leave me alone!” he said angrily. “I do not 
want you ; you only want your own way ; you would 
not yield an inch of it to help me ; you want to drive 
me like one of the sheep.” Then, as she tried to be 
heard : “ I wish you would go. I prefer to be alone ; 
I don’t wish to be disturbed.” 

Even then his tone was ill-used rather than reso- 
lute. He went to the window looking on to the 
farm-yard and stood there till he heard the door open 
and close again. He looked round, sighed with re- 
lief at finding himself alone, and walking to the 
fireplace he struck one of the blackening logs fiercely 
with the poker, till it sent out showers of bright red 
sparks. 

Ruth had gone slowly upstairs. She had a curious 
feeling of guilt, but she turned from thought of self. 
Something must be done at once, her young impa- 
tience decided. She could not consult with Clifford; 
she shrank from the idea of seeing him again. All 
at once she remembered that Mr. Bevington had 
studied farming a good deal during his stay at 
Appledore; he would surely be able to give her some 
advice in regard to the farm. Yes, he must be her 
best adviser ; this was the way in which she veiled 


84 


appledore farm. 


her passionate longing to see him again. The knowl- 
edge of Michael Clifford’s love seemed to add strength 
to her own. 

She did not hesitate; she sat down at her little 
table and began to write. She asked her lover to 
release her from her promise of secrecy. She said 
that her father was in so much trouble that she could 
not feel justified in keeping a secret from him, and 
she knew it would cheer him to learn that her future 
was assured. She did not speak of Clifford ; it seemed 
useless. She told her lover the joy it would give her 
to see him again. 

A sudden cry startled her ; she hurried to the door 
and listened. This time she heard distinctly. 

Miss Bryant ! Miss Ruth ! Come ! come quick ! ” 

It was Bridget’s voice, and Ruth hurried down- 
stairs hardly knowing what she expected to find 
there. 

The sitting-room door stood open, and Ruth paused 
a moment before she went in. Her father lay on the 
floor; he looked rigid and lifeless. Bridget stood 
beside him, so overcome with terror that she had not 
even unfastened the tie he wore round his throat. 

“ He’s gone ! ” the woman cried as Ruth came in ; 
“ the poor soul’s gone and we’re too late to save him ! ” 


CHAPTER IX. 


Bridget stood still, aghast at her young mistress’ 
promptitude. 

Ruth knelt down beside her father and loosened 
his tie and shirt, and then bid the trembling, terrified 
woman fetch John Bird and Peter, the cowman. She 
had seen them both in the yard when she came in, 
and she knew they must be near at hand. With all 
her outward calm Ruth could not think. Time 
seemed very long to her while she knelt beside her 
insensible father, listening now and then for the 
beating of his heart, but unable to detect a sign of 
life. At last there came the dull sound of heavy, 
lumbering feet, and the two men entered awkwardly, 
one after another. Their sheepishness fied, however, 
as they saw their master lying on the fioor. Ruth 
pointed to the sofa, and they carefully raised Mr. 
Bryant and placed him there. 

Peter,” Ruth looked at the cowman, a small, 
twisted creature whose face seemed to be forever 
trying to straighten itself, “I want you to saddle 
Peggy at once, and to fetch the doctor. Be as quick 
as you can! And, Bird, will you go and ask Mrs. 
Voce to come directly? You can tell her what has 
happened. It might be better to take the horse and 
cart for her, if it’s handy.” 

85 


86 


APPLEDOBE FARM. 


The men pulled their forelocks, said “Yes, miss/^ 
and departed, wondering in their slow, silent way at 
Miss Ruth’s composure and at her readiness. 

Their “ missuses” would have been eventually help- 
ful, but they would have spent many precious 
moments in pity and wonder. Perhaps, on the 
whole, with all their admiration for Miss Bryant’s 
composure and promptitude, they considered her a 
trifle hard-hearted. 

Ruth stood beside the sofa watching the insensible 
flgure. She had already tried all the simple remedies 
she knew about, but there was a new look in her 
father’s face that frightened her in spite of her efforts 
to be self-controlled. There was such a total want of 
expression in it, and she fancied that the mouth was 
drawn slightly to one side. A horror seized her — 
suppose her father never recovered his senses ! Sup- 
pose he were taken away while she was still keeping 
this secret from him! Could she ever be happy 
again, with the consciousness that she had deceived 
him? Her face contracted with pain, till it looked 
small and pinched, as she stood waiting the return 
of her messengers. She started as Bridget came in 
suddenly ; she held up her hand as a warning to be 
careful. 

“Mr. Clifford’s here, miss,” the woman said; “he 
met John Bird, miss, and he wants to know if you’ll 
see him, or if he can be of use.” 

“Ask him to walk in.” 

Her momentary impulse had been to shrink from 
seeing Clifford, but she went forward to meet him as 
cordially as if she had not already seen him in the 
morning. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


87 


She pointed to the sofa. Clifford bent over Philip 
Bryant, and assured himself that he still breathed. 

He told Ruth this. 

hear you have sent for the doctor,” he added, 
‘^but he may be out, and I shall perhaps find him 
more quickly than your messenger; shall I try? ” 
Thank you very much ; you are sure to bring him 
more quickly.” 

Clifford only nodded in answer as he left the room, 
and before she thought he could have mounted his 
horse she heard the sound of a sharp trot up the lane. 
Mrs. Voce soon arrived, before the doctor did. She 
looked at Mr. Bryant, screwed her lips with mysteri- 
ous importance, and then she turned her attention to 
Ruth. 

Mercy me. Miss Bryant! We don’t want two 
sick people in the house at once, sure enough ; and 
we shall have them safe as the bank, if you don’t 
mind yourself. You look as faint and as white 
as ” 

Bridget had stayed in the room, and she now 
interrupted : 

^^And ’tis no wonder, Mrs. Voce. Miss Bryant 
hasn’t had nothing to eat since breakfast, no more 
but what the poor master haven’t, neither.” 

Mrs. Voce bustled out of the room, followed by the 
approving Bridget. When the old woman came 
back with a glass of wine and bread and butter, she 
persuaded Ruth to swallow a few mouthfuls before 
the doctor came. 

The doctor sent every one out of the room but Mr. 
Clifford. He made a long examination of his patient 
before he spoke. 


88 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


“ It is a very serious attack,” he said gravely. I 
think he may come round, but he won’t do it in a 
hurry. Meantime he must stay here.” 

Clifford went to the door, and found Ruth, as he 
expected, close at hand. She came into the room, 
and the doctor repeated his opinion. 

“You must leave him where he is. Miss Bryant,” 
he said. “ That old-fashioned sofa does as well as a 
bed for a man who cannot move. I see you have 
placed his head comfortably. Ah! I’m glad to see 
Mrs. Voce,” he added pompously. He lowered his 
voice as he finished his instructions. 

Ruth walked away to the farther end of the room, 
and the doctor followed her. She had that special 
sort of magnetism which seemed to draw people to 
do as she wished, even when the wish was not ex- 
pressed. 

“Dr. Buchan,” she said softly, “do you think 
my father will get well? Please tell me the truth! ” 

The doctor put his high-colored face on one side, 
and looked doubtfully at Miss Bryant. He so greatly 
admired her that, although Ruth was perfectly un- 
conscious of his admiration, Mrs. Buchan was secretly 
jealous of the praise lavished by her husband on Miss 
Bryant. The doctor was extremely pompous, but he 
was skilful and kind-hearted. He considered that 
Miss Bryant’s question was a breach of professional 
etiquette, but there was so keen an expression of 
suffering in her sweet, dark eyes that his answer 
came almost without his will. 

“I think he will recover his senses,” he said, 
“ though perhaps not for some hours to come ; but I 
am afraid he will never be quite the same man again.” 


APPLEDORJE FARM, 


89 


His voice became graver as he ended. Indeed, I 
hardly think he will recover the use of his limbs ; ” 
then, more cheerfully, Look here. Miss Bryant ! I 
would advise you to divide this room by means of a 
screen or curtains ; keep the sofa where it is ; that 
front end of the room gets the sunshine, and is more 
out of the reach of sounds from the farm-yard. Yes, 
it will be better in every way to do this. Good-by ! 
I will come and see him early to-morrow.” 

Clifford saw the doctor to the door and then he 
came back. 

At the hotel, ” he said, “ they have a very large 
screen; shall I borrow it for you? It will help in 
dividing the room. I wish you would tell me 
anything I can do. I shall, of course, ride over 
to-morrow.” 

Ruth did not answer at once ; she stood looking at 
the insensible figure on the sofa. At last she said : 

“You have already done much to help us, thank 
you. I think we have all that will be needed to 
carry out the doctor’s orders. In a few days I shall 
be very glad to ask your advice, if you will kindly 
give it me.” His heart beat with a rising hope, but 
she looked so very grave, that he felt she wished him 
to leave her. He went out by the house-place, so as 
to get a few words with Mrs. Voce. 

“I do not half like going away,” he said; “you 
had better let Bird sleep in the house, Mrs. Voce. 
You may want help, you know.” 

“Thank you, I’m sure, sir, for being so thought- 
ful,” said the imperturbable Sally; “but you may be 
quite easy on that account, sir. We’re three females 
and a slip of a girl, to say nothing of Miss Ruth, 


90 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


who’s worth all on us put together. Don’t you take 
on about us, sir! Us ’ll do first-rate.” 

Ruth sat thinking over the doctor’s words. It was 
so sad to feel that nothing could be done, except just 
a few little trifling things, until there was some sign 
of returning consciousness. Her thoughts went on 
to that afterward, and she shrank away with dismay 
from the thought of her father’s future. It was plain 
they could not remain at Appledore, for though Ruth 
fancied she might be able to manage with the help 
of the men who had so long been at work on it, she 
now knew that there was no money. She felt, indeed, 
that they were in debt perhaps beyond her power to 
repay what was owing. Who were her father’s 
creditors? she wondered. She flushed at the certainty 
she felt that one of them was Mr. Clifford. As she 
recalled her talk with her father she shrank from 
consulting this true friend, lest he should attribute 
her confidence in him to a warmer feeling. She 
shivered as the thought returned that her decided 
refusal to encourage Clifford’s hopes had helped in 
causing her father’s seizure. “ I could not have said 
anything else,” she thought. 

She sat like a statue, thinking of what lay before 
her. Only yesterday she had felt like an expectant 
child, in the gladness of her outlook on life. It 
seemed now as if she could not look forward. A 
gray, obscuring veil had fallen over her future. At 
last her thoughts resolved themselves into shape out 
of the mental chaos in which she had been groping. 
Her plan for an independent livelihood was com- 
pletely shattered. Her place in life must be beside 
her father ; but she knew that this could not be at 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


91 


Appledore. She must ask Mr. Clifford to give notice 
to the owners, and she must also ask him where she 
could find a cheap cottage for them to live in. She 
paused and reflected that as yet she did not know 
whether there would be money to pay even the rent 
of a cottage. She could not submit to be dependent 
on Mr. Clifford, or on any one, so long as she had 
health and strength. She had no friend near at hand 
to advise with. The rector of Church-Marshfield 
was an old bachelor, who lived shut up with his 
books. He was kind and attentive to the very poor 
and to the sick, but he was essentially a village pas- 
tor, incapable of giving advice in any secular matter 
out of his own narrow sphere. Ruth thought she 
would write to her Aunt Whishaw and ask her to 
advise her, but she did not fancy that she should get 
much help in that quarter. Of course the one reli- 
able person to consult with was Mr. Clifford, but the 
longer she thought about him the more distinctly did 
she realize the full meaning of Sally Voce’s hints, 
and of her father’s appeal with regard to this trusty 
friend. Ruth felt that if she did not love Mr. Bev- 
ington it would not be difficult to bring herself to 
care for Michael, but the idea was at present repul- 
sive. The shadows slowly gathered in the corners 
of the long room, while she sat there thinking. Sud- 
denly a new thought came to help her. Why did 
she not tell Mr. Bevington what had happened, and 
trust herself to his guidance. He had told her more 
than once that he loved farming, and that he should 
like to possess a small farm like Appledore and try 
upon it some of his ideas, instead of feeling obliged 
to follow in the beaten track as her father did. 


92 


APPLEDORE FAR3L 


She was ignorant of his resources, except that he 
must before long come into a large fortune, which 
would make him independent of his parents. Ruth 
detested the idea of obligation, but she knew that 
she would rather consult with Mr. Bevington than 
with Michael Clifford, and Mr. Bevington understood 
the practical working of the farm far better than Mr. 
Clifford could. It was possible that her lover might 
offer to purchase Appledore and let her father con- 
tinue to rent the house. She suddenly shook herself. 
How unnatural she was ! How could she yield her- 
self to this pleasant day-dream while her father lay 
there looking so much more like death than life? 

She rose and rang the bell. She dared not leave 
the room, even for an instant; and she had just re- 
membered that at Bridget’s sudden outcry she had 
left her letter to Mr. Bevington open on her writing- 
table. 

Mrs. Voce came in with a stealthy step; her firmly 
closed mouth and the depressed corners of her lips 
had a funereal aspect which, to say the least, was not 
cheering at such a time. 

“Yes, miss; is there any change?” she said sol- 
emnly. 

Ruth asked her to take her place while she went to 
get her letter-case. It occurred to the girl as she 
went upstairs that for this once she must trust one 
of the men to post her letter. She had always had 
an uneasy consciousness with regard to the postmis- 
tress, but she argued that possibly the woman did 
not know her handwriting ; and more than once Ruth 
had managed to meet the postman on his way to 
Purlej^. 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


93 


‘‘If there is to be gossip, there must be,” she said, 
with a sort of defiance. “ It must be my duty to tell 
him what has happened, and to say I must tell father 
the truth as soon as he can understand. ” 

Either the doubt implied in the words, or the relief 
of finding herself alone, caused her suddenly to break 
down in sobs and tears ; and she hurriedly gathered 
up her writing things, as if she feared her dearly 
loved father might pass away while she was absent. 

She asked Mrs. Voce to stay and watch while she 
wrote at the table in the window. Her letter to Mrs. 
Whishaw was soon finished, but it took her longer 
to explain matters to Mr. Bevington. “ If you could 
only come and see me,” she wrote, “it would be so 
much easier to talk it all out than to write. You 
would, I am sure, advise me so much better than 
any one else can. Indeed, there is no one else who 
could help me, except Mr. Clifford ; and I do not 
want to ask him.” 

She went out into the yard and found John Bird 
leaving work. 

He asked after the master, told Miss Bryant not 
to mind sending for him in the night if she found 
she needed help. “ I’d do a heap more nor that for 
’ee,” he said doggedly. He then set off with the 
letters for Church-Marshfield post-office, 


CHAPTER X. 


Bevington Park was also in the West of Eng- 
land, though it was a long way removed from Ap- 
pledore. It was a lovely place near the river 
Severn. Its fertile farms stretched far and wide, its 
richly wooded park was varied by uplands and well 
stocked with deer. At intervals between the tall 
forest trees glimpses of the Welsh hills, and on the 
other side the green, smooth-shaped Wrekin — at mid- 
day a solid protuberance, without any special claim 
to admiration, but in the evening light hazy and 
vision-like, seeming as if it would fade out of ken of 
the gazer. The house, however, at Bevington was 
far more remarkable than the park. It was an old, 
gabled dwelling, in which it was said that Queen 
Elizabeth had once slept. On one side of it an an- 
cient walnut-tree stretched its branches to such a 
circumference that they had to be supported by stout 
fir poles, while on the other side the lawn was shad- 
owed by cedar-trees. A border gay with spring 
flowers was filled at the back with rose-trees. 

Mr. Bevington was pacing up and down the terrace 
above this border and just below the beautiful old 
windows of the drawing-room. He looked consider- 
ably older, and not nearly so happy as he had looked 
at Appledore. 

A figure came softly into the window and looked 
at him through the small lozenge-shaped panes, the 
H 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


95 


figure of a tall woman with a small, pale face. Mrs. 
Bevington was paler than her son, but he was singu- 
larly like her. There was the same pinched expres- 
sion in the thin lips ; the eyes, too, were alike in form 
and color, though Mrs. Bevington’s had rather a fur- 
tive than a mischievous expression. Both nose and 
chin showed a determination that was wanting in 
the young man’s face. He passed the window again, 
and saw his mother standing there. He frowned, 
and muttered impatiently : 

Why can she not leave me alone? I said I must 
not be pressed;” he saw the lattice open, and he 
paused before it. “ Do you want me, mother?” he 
said. 

Well, yes, if you can spare me a few minutes.” 

The young fellow sighed with vexation, but he 
went indoors. 

He found his mother seated beside the fire in a 
large room with oak-panelled walls. The handsome 
plaster ceiling was of the same date as the rest of the 
house. The hearth was open, and above it the richly 
carved oak chimney-piece reached to the ceiling. 
About the room, in striking contrast with the gloom 
of the dark walls, were a great many quaint, spindle- 
legged tables; and upon almost all of these stood 
groups of carefully arranged pot-flowers and delicate 
ferns. There were larger tables covered with books 
and photographs; among these were slender vases 
filled with cut flowers. These last seemed to be less 
in harmony with the old-world place than was the 
tall, proud figure and the pale, passionless face of the 
lady beside the hearth. 

“ I want to order the carriage, dear,” she said in a 


96 


APPLEDOEE FARM. 


soft, purring tone that soothed her son’s impatient 
mood. “ You will drive with me to Castle Stretton? ” 

Reginald Bevington stood looking into the fire, 
softly stroking his silky mustache with the fore- 
finger of his left hand. He knew very well the 
meaning of his mother’s question, and he also under- 
stood the importance attached to his answer. He 
had travelled a good deal after he left Appledore — 
had spent several weeks in Paris and in Vienna — and 
he had been very extravagant. When he came liome 
he learned that his godfather, an old man whom he 
had supposed unlikely to live many months longer, 
had suddenly recovered his health. He now wrote 
to announce his marriage with a comparatively 
young woman, his vicar’s daughter, who had been, 
he wrote, “a ministering angel to him during his 
long illness.” 

This was startling news, especially as his mother 
assured Reginald Bevington that his godfather was 
not much over sixty, and, if he really had regained 
his health, might be expected to live for some years. 

So long as there had been no doubt of his succes- 
sion to his godfather’s fortune, which was a largo 
one, his father had been very indulgent in regard to 
his son’s whims, and also to his apparent inability 
to keep within his income ; but this news caused a 
complete revolution in the ideas of both father and 
mother respecting him. They were not a united 
couple. Mrs. Bevington had been an heiress, who 
had been married for the sake of her money rather 
than for any personal or mental charm she possessed ; 
but on this point — that Reginald must really settle 
and make a rich marriage — they were as united as 


APPLEDOR^^ FARM. 


97 


they had been in removing him from Appledore, and 
from the dangerous fascination of Ruth Bryant. His 
father and mother had not spoken to him about Ruth. 
When he came home they had borne his discontent 
and ill-humor in silence ; and when at the end of the 
London season he proposed to go abroad, they were 
extremely kind and liberal in forwarding his plans. 
Now everything had changed. As Reginald was an 
only son, and Mrs. Bevington was amply provided 
for, they had lived showily — indeed, quite up to their 
income. The past season had been unusually expen- 
sive; and although Mrs. Bevington had rejoiced in 
her son’s prolonged stay in Vienna, and had told her 
husband that the surest way of blotting out his fancy 
for the farmer’s daughter would be found in a for- 
eign liaison., which was sure not to last, she looked 
sharply after money, and considered it w^asted when 
it did not serve any practical purpose. She intended 
her son to stand for the county at the next election ; 
this would require a larger outlay, and she had little 
hope that Reginald would give up his extravagant 
habits. He must marry money. At Castle Stretton, 
only eight miles away, there was the ver}^ girl to suit 
him ; a girl who had cared for him ever since she first 
saw him, and on whom Mrs. Bevington had looked as 
her future daughter. Miss Stretton was plain ; she 
was short, and she had delicate health ; she was also 
a year or so older than Reggy was; but she had 
plenty of money ; and Mrs. Bevington argued a mar- 
riage was seldom a fit in every way — a large fortune 
and a good temper were immense advantages. 

Reginald stood thinking over all his mother had 
said, both with reference to Clara Stretton and also 
7 


98 


APPLEDOBE FAPM. 


about his father’s inability to increase his present 
allowance. He knew that all the advice she had 
given him was sensible and well-founded; he had 
always been told that he had better marry Clara 
Stretton, and yet he turned from the idea of her as 
if he were still a child and she were a dose of nasty 
physic. And then he decided to let himself drift. 
He could not be forced into an engagement against 
his will; and even if he did ask Miss Stretton to 
marry him, he could make the engagement last as 
long as he pleased. At his age he was not going to 
tie himself up with a wife and family. 

“Yes, mother,^’ he said; “I am willing to go with 
you.” 

Mrs. Bevington rose. She was almost as tall as 
her son as she stood beside him ; and she kissed his 
cheek, as she said in her most soothing tone : “ Dear 
boy, how sensible you are ! I cannot tell 3^ou how 
happy you make me ! ” 

He drew himself quickly away. The motto of his 
life had always been to shirk all that was disagree- 
able or troublesome ; and although he longed to tell 
his mother that she was taking the matter far too 
seriously, he had a dim consciousness that this might 
produce a scene, or at any rate some plain statement 
of facts, which he had resolved to avoid. He had 
lived too much with his mother not to have much in- 
sight into her nature ; but he had once or twice noticed 
that, in spite of her outward fastidiousness, and the 
refinement she exacted from others, she could be 
unflinchingly plain-spoken — almost what in another 
person he would have called coarse — in her way of 
stating facts. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


99 


His mother’s mental sight seldom erred respecting 
him. She now went to her writing-table, and open- 
ing a locked drawer she took out several papers tied 
together and put them into her son’s hand. 

“ I have to see the housekeeper,” she said. “ I will 
say three for the carriage. You will have time to 
look through these. Your father is greatly puzzled 
as to what can be done about them. The last audit 
was so bad, you see, that we have had to be very 
careful. I think we must stay here a month later 
than usual. As you know, I usually go to town 
before Easter.” 

Reginald Bevington knew very well what the pa- 
pers were, and as he closed the door on his mother 
he could hardly keep back the groan which he 
indulged in as he placed himself in her chair beside 
the hearth. 

He mechanically opened the parcel of papers. He 
saw with annoyance that only half the accounts 
against him were paid ; the others were fastened to- 
gether, and on them was a slip in his father’s hand- 
writing to the effect that Reginald must settle these 
himself, his father having done as much as lay in 
his power. The young fellow felt furious ; he was 
sure that his mother could have helped him if she 
had chosen. He started up, and for some minutes 
he paced the room, almost beside himself with anger. 

He had no intention of paying his own debts. It 
seemed to him that it was distinctly the part of a 
parent to relieve a child of any trouble or embarrass- 
ment. It was the first time he had been made to feel 
dependent on any one, and the sensation wa^ new 
and embarrassing. 


100 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


It was all the fault of his godfather. Confound 
him! what right had he to let Reginald consider 
himself heir to a largo property, and then to commit 
the self-indulgence of marrying a young woman? 

All at once he remembered Ruth Bryant. What 
a lucky escape he had had ! If he had not been so 
suddenly summoned home it seemed to him, as he 
recalled his own infatuation for her, that he might 
have found himself engaged to Ruth. As it was she 
had set him free from any engagement. He wished, 
however, she had continued to write to him, though ; 
her letters were so bright and fresh, and it gave him, 
he Imew, an exquisite pleasure to read in them the 
assurance of her affection for him. 

“ She was beautiful, if you like ! I can’t give up 
such a charming girl,” he said to himself, as he 
stood looking dully out on to the lawn. “ I must see 
her again some day, whatever happens. She is 
something like a girl! with no thought of self about 
her. That last time in the glen her eyes told me 
how she could love a fellow.” He smiled at himself 
for his own reticence on that occasion. He had 
grown so much older since that meeting, and he told 
himself he knew so much more about women and 
their ways. He decided to write to Ruth and ask 
her to give him a meeting. At this point the butler 
came in to announce the carriage, and when a few 
minutes later Mrs. Bevington appeared she was 
agreeably surprised to find her son in so calm and 
pleasant a mood. She had expected that the message 
conveyed by the unpaid bills would have greatly dis- 
turbed him. She made herself very agreeable during 
the drive, talked on the subjects which she knew had 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


101 


any particular interest for him, and then as they 
approached Stretton Castle she busied herself in 
pointing out to him the excellent farming on the 
estate and the value of the land attached to it. 

“There is plenty of room on this land,” she said, 
“ for any one to try agricultural experiments. Old 
Mr. Stretton, as you know, is a mere book- worm ; 
and he allows the bailiff to take his own way, and 
that of course in the old hum-drum style of things.” 

Reginald looked about him ; it certainly did seem 
to be a fine place — not so picturesque, perhaps, as 
Bevington was, but larger and grander; and he 
knew that the acreage was far more considerable. 

“Your father tells me,” his mother said, “that the 
Strettons have a large property in Somersetshire 
beside this one.” 

Reginald looked at the park beyond his side of the 
avenue up which they were driving, and he smiled 
at his mother’s apparent unconsciousness. She meant 
it very well, no doubt, but she was a trifle too trans- 
parent, he considered. 

“ What do you suppose the fair Clara is likely to 
have, altogether? ” he said abruptly. 

“ I know she has five thousand a year of her own, 
left her by that extraordinary Welsh grandfather; 
and of course at Mrs. Stretton'^s death Clara takes 
the rest of her grandfather’s fortune; I am told that 
it has been simply left to accumulate. You see, the 
Strettons have been rich for generations, and they 
have always had very small families. Clara cannot 
come into less than half a million when her father 
dies, and I understand he will make very handsome 
settlements if she marries to please him,” 


102 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


Reginald smiled mockingly at his mother. 

“ He may possibly be very hard to j^lease.” 

“You have no reason to think so,” — she looked at 
him so directly that his eyes drooped. “ He has told 
your father, and Mrs. Stretton has told me, how much 
they like you, and how fitted they consider you to 
manage a large property. I believe it has always 
been Mr. Stretton ’s hobby to join these two estates; 
the property that lies between is so small that it can 
be easily annexed when the present holder dies. It 
is only leased, as you know. Your father says the 
owner, a Scotchman, is willing to sell it.” 

“By Jove!” Reginald exclaimed, “here comes a 
good horse and a good rider.” 

As he spoke a horse vaulted lightly over a gate 
some thirty yards in front, and his rider, a lady, 
looked for an instant perfectly serene and unmoved, 
as she bent a little forward and patted the graceful 
creature’s neck. She looked up, and as she recog- 
nized the occupants of the approaching carriage she 
blushed deeply, and drew on one side as if she hoped 
to escape notice. 

But already both mother and son were bowing to 
her, and in a minute or so the carriage stopped. 
While Reginald complimented Miss Stretton on her 
horse, Mrs. Bevington said to herself, with a satisfied 
smile : 

“ If I had planned it all myself with the greatest 
care it could not have happened in a better or more 
taking way.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


Three weeks had gone by since Ruth sent off her 
letter to Mr. Bevington, and as yet it had not been 
answered. Her father had slowly regained con- 
sciousness, and he was now able to sit up; but his 
left leg was useless, and his face was still slightly 
drawn. The doctor told Ruth that as the weather 
became warmer her father might possibly recover 
the use of his leg ; he also told her that the invalid 
must be kept free from worry or discussion of any 
kind. Ruth had listened in silence. It was evident 
that her father could not be moved in his present 
state. She had begun to think that Mr. Bevington 
did not mean to answer her letter ; he might possibly 
be travelling, but she could no longer delay. Only 
this morning she had most unwillingly determined 
that after all she must consult Mr. Clifford. She had 
scarcely seen him alone since her father’s seizure, 
though he had come every day to the farm. This 
morning, however, Mrs. Voce and Faith had been 
busy arranging the study as a bedroom for Mr. Bry- 
ant, and while he sat close to the window in the 
May sunshine Ruth was trying to make her sitting- 
room look more like itself. Helped by tall, strong 
Sally Voce and a stout crutch-stick, the invalid could 
now manage to cross the hah ; and the doctor had 
pronounced that his patient would be all the better 
for the change. 


103 


104 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


Mr. Bryant spoke very little to any one, even to 
Clifford. He seemed glad, when his friend came, 
after the first greetings, to be left in peace. He lis- 
tened to the talk between Clifford and Ruth, but he 
rarely joined in it; and his daughter fancied that he 
liked best to be left undisturbed. To-day, after din- 
ner, he went to his room and lay down ; and Ruth 
felt relieved. She was almost sure that Mr. Clifford 
would come, as he had not been at Appledore yester- 
day; and when she had seen that her father was 
comfortably asleep she stood by the front window of 
the sitting-room, nerving herself to say what lay so 
heavily on her mind. Formerly she could have said 
anything to Mr. Clifford, but now she was self-con- 
scious on two different points: he was their bene- 
factor, and she had reason to believe that he loved her. 

She began to feel shy. She crossed the room and 
opened her pianoforte, which had remained closed 
all through her father’s illness. She had a passion- 
ate love of music, and she had had a fair amount of 
instruction, which had helped her natural gift ; but 
while Mr. Bevington was at Appledore her music 
had been entirely neglected. She had gone back to 
it with fresh ardor when he left ; it seemed to blend 
with the thought of him ; it took her away, too, from 
anxious meditation about the future. Ruth had an 
excellent memory, and could play without music ; and 
now she felt herself in a sort of happy dreamland, as 
she played old favorite melodies that she had learned 
years ago — bits from Mendelssohn and from ‘‘Les 
Nuits Blanches,” and then unconsciously her fingers 
wandered into the pathetic notes of Schubert’s 

Adieu.” 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


105 


She suddenly left off playing. She wondered why, 
on this day especially, when she might have been 
glad to see her beloved father so far recovered, she 
should have chosen this sad music. Was it a warn- 
ing, she wondered, that they should soon have to 
take their leave of Appledore? She left the piano- 
forte and went again to the window. She was 
growing impatient to hear Mr. Clifford’s opinion of 
their position. 

This time she had not long to wait. It was one of 
those mockingly bright days which seem to be a par- 
ody of summer ; they have all belonging to it except 
its warmth. A keen east wind was searing the 
edges of the fresh green leaves and nipping the fruit 
blossoms. Mr. Clifford usually rode into the farm- 
yard and left his horse there ; and Ruth went across 
to the back window to see if he had arrived. He 
was standing there talking to John Bird and Peter. 
The two men faced the window, and she could see 
that they looked troubled. She went back to her 
former place and waited. She felt sure they should 
have to leave the farm, and that Mr. Clifford had 
come to tell her they must go. 

He came in looking very cheerful. 

“This is good news,” he said; “Mrs. Voce has 
been telling me of your patient’s move. I believe 
we shall soon have him in the garden if he continues 
to progress at this rate.” 

Ruth pointed to the sofa, and took a chair opposite 
him. 

“Yes, he is much better,” she said. “I am so 
glad to see you alone; I want to ask you something.” 

He looked eagerly at her, but she kept her eyes 


106 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


fixed on his without any sign of consciousness ; her 
lips quivered slightly, but she did not seem nervous, 
he thought. 

“I want to know,” she went on, ‘‘what you think 
we had better do when we leave Appledore ; we have 
to leave it, you know.” 

“ Your father has told me so, but I see no occasion 
for hurry.” 

Ruth gave him a sudden indignant glance; he 
spoke so coldly, so indifferently, she thought, when 
he must know the pain it gave her to talk about 
leaving the place she had been born in. 

“Why should we delay?” she said, sharply, he 
fancied ; “ if it has to be done, the sooner it is over 
the better.” 

“Your father is not well enough to move yet,” he 
said. 

He had been longing to see her alone, and to get a 
few words with her. He was determined not to let 
her guess at his attachment till her father’s affairs 
were in a more settled state, but he had not reckoned 
on the strength of his passion for her. It was as 
much as he could do to keep silence on the subject, 
and the effort gave unintentional stiffness and coldness 
to his manner which deeply wounded her. 

“My father,” she said in a hard voice, “can be 
moved now. We may have to wait months for him 
to be able to walk, even if he ever recovers the use 
of his leg. I am sorry to trouble you, Mr. Clifford, 
but I do not know any one else who can advise me. 
I want to know whether we must give notice to the 
landlord, or what we have to do.” 

He was looking anxiously at her, but she went on 


APPLEDGRE FARM. 


107 


in the same hard tone : “ I also want to know — I fancy 
you can tell me — if we have anything of our own do 
live on when we leave Appledore. The doctor says 
I must not talk to my father about business.” She 
spoke as if she were repeating a lesson. There are 
moments when Nature is so much wiser than we 
poor mortals esteem ourselves to be. Michael Clifford 
longed to ask Ruth to go back to the old friendly 
terms and to put full confidence in him ; but he also 
longed to declare his love, and to put everything he 
possessed at her disposal. He could not offer her a 
mere brotherly friendship when he was filled with 
ardent love, and so it seemed wise to him to take a 
middle course. He was unconscious in the stern 
effort to repress his feelings how very uns3^mpathetic 
he appeared. 

“ So far as I know of Mr. Bryant’s affairs,” he said, 
and even then he tried to speak indifferently, lest her 
keen wits should discover how much he knew, 
am sure that you will be able to rent a comfortable 
cottage. If you will allow me, I will speak to Dr. 
Buchan, but I am almost sure that he will say wait 
till summer really comes. The weather has been 
hitherto so cold and wet, so different from last year, 
that we may reasonably hope for a fine August. If 
you like, I will try to find you a cottage by August.” 

She looked dissatisfied. 

“ I cannot think it will hurt my father to move 
sooner,” she said coldly; ‘‘except for his lameness he 
seems fairly well. I imagine that the doctor objects 
to his talking about business because he fears the 
effect on his brain. I fancy a change of surround- 
ings would be good for him just now.” 


108 


APPLEDOEE FAPM. 


Clifford smiled; and, as if a new idea had just 
come to him, he said warmly : “ Will you trust your 
father to our care? My sister is always an invalid, 
but she is not dull ; and I am sure she would take 
good care of Mr. Bryant. Do let us have him ! It 
would be a rest for you to have a little quiet after 
your anxious nursing.” 

“ You are very good,” she said gratefully, for his 
kindness touched her, though the proposal troubled 
her ; she was so sure that they already owed much to 
Mr. Clifford, that she shrank from increasing the 
debt. It had, however, shown her that this old friend 
was not as indifferent as he seemed ; and she added 
that she would speak to her father. 

“Thank you,” Clifford said. 

She looked up and hesitated. “ I have no right to 
bother you,” she said, “but do you not think I may 
lessen our expenses without waiting till I can speak 
to father? I want to send away all unnecessary 
help. Mrs. Voce has promised to stay here until we 
leave Appledore, so that really we need very little 
help besides.” 

He was greatly surprised. He had been accus- 
tomed to look on Ruth as the light and sunshine of 
the home rather than in a more domestic character. 
Even when she had spoken of her wish to go out in 
the world he had considered her unreal ; and also he 
had fancied that she was tempted by the prospect of 
change. It was grievous, he thought, that this 
beautiful bright creature should be so early burdened 
with the sordid cares of life. 

“You are too young to have such things put on 
you,” he said impatiently. “ Why not go on as you 


APPLEDORE EARM. 


109 


are till you move? Then you can start as you mean 
to go on. I am afraid in this large house you cannot 
manage with fewer servants, and — and it would 
grieve,” he paused, and then said, ‘‘grieve your 
father extremely if he discovered that 3^ou did any 
household work yourself.” 

Euth laughed in her old bright way. 

“ I have a better opinion of my father than that ; 
besides, ever since his illness began I have dusted 
his bedroom diligently, and he never made an objec- 
tion, I am sure. Many women in a far better posi- 
tion than mine help with the housework,” she said 
triumphantly. 

He looked at her hands and he sighed. The idea 
of seeing this beautiful girl, his own precious Ruth, 
hard- worked, robbed of her well-kept, dainty aspect, 
was very unpleasant ; but he could not find any better 
reason against her plan than those he had already 
given. 

“ I fancy you will take your own way, whatever 
happens.” 

He did not mean to speak coldly, but his voice 
sounded harsh and full of rebuke. Tears sprang to 
Ruth’s eyes, at what she considered his persistent 
unkindness. Her cheeks flushed, and she closed her 
lips firmly. 

She had always done this as a child when she was 
vexed, and Clifford knew it. He forgot his resolu- 
tion to avoid all emotional subjects. It was time for 
him to leave her, but he could not go away and leave 
her angry with him. 

“You are not vexed, Ruth? ” 

She flushed yet more deeply, and he thought she 


110 


APPLEDORE PARM. 


looked haughty. He had called her Ruth years ago, 
and it had seemed natural that he should do so. To- 
day she thought it a freedom, and she resented it not 
so much for herself as because she felt sure it would 
give offence to Mr. Bevington that any one else 
should call her by her name. 

“I am not vexed, Mr. Clifford,” she said stiffly, 
“ but I think, if you will excuse me, that I ought to 
go and see after my father ; he has been a long time 
asleep.” 

“ Good-by ! ” He held her hand a moment, and 
looked wistfully at her. “ Then you will think over 
that idea of trusting us with your father? It would 
be a great pleasure to us.” 

“ Thank you, I will tell my father of your kind- 
ness.” 

She said this more cordially, but though she came 
out into the hall to see him depart, Michael Clifford 
felt that somehow he was farther away from Ruth 
Bryant than be had been at the beginning of his visit. 


CHAPTER XII. 


Ruth was glad when bed-time came; she had 
never felt so troubled. She had been perplexed with 
a dim sense of wrong-doing when Mr. Bevington had 
asked her to keep their love secret from her father, 
but there had been the delicious opium, the conscious- 
ness of her own love, and her faith in her lover, to 
deaden her sense of wrong-doing. To-day she felt 
herself to be wholly in the wrong ; she had been un- 
just, and also most ungrateful to this kind old friend. 
She had no right to judge Michael Clifford by his 
manner when he had given so many proofs of his 
warm and true friendship. How kind, how even 
devoted, he had been during her father’s illness! 
How grateful she had promised herself to be to him 
when on the evening of her father’s seizure he had 
come again late in the evening, bringing the screen 
he had procured for her ! He had ridden beside the 
cart himself, to make sure that the driver, who was 
a stranger, should not disturb the household. And 
since then, Ruth thought, as she went over the days 
that had passed, each day had shown him to be an 
ever mindful and generous friend. 

The point that touched the girl most in the consid- 
eration of all his kindnesses was the delicacy that 
pervaded them. He had always parried her thanks 
with some ready excuse. The doctor had suggested 
this, or the rector had proposed the other. Some- 
Ill 


112 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


times the idea, he said, had come from Sally Y oce. 
He had never troubled Ruth by proposing this or 
that; he had done it for her without asking. And 
to-day she had rewarded him for all his goodness by 
a cold, even an angry manner in receiving his ad- 
vice — advice for which she had herself asked. 

Before she fell asleep that night she cried over her 
own ingratitude. She had been vexed with Mr. 
Clifford’s cold manner; and, she told herself, all the 
while her own had been icy; and when in the good- 
ness of his heart he had called her Ruth — perhaps to 
recall her to the memory of old times, when she knew 
she had been much kinder to him — she had actually 
been mean enough to be offended. She hid her hot 
face in her pillow ; she was desperately ashamed of 
her conduct, and, as she thought over it, it grew 
worse in her eyes, for she believed that it had been 
caused by self-consciousness. She might have known 
better ; indeed she had more than once told herself 
during these weeks that her dear father had been 
self-deceived ; he had spoken as he wished when he 
had assured her that Clifford loved her. Ruth de- 
cided that it was impossible that he could have 
hidden his feelings so completely in the many meet- 
ings they had had since her father’s seizure. Why, 
then, having more than once acknowledged this to 
herself, had she been so silly as she had been to-day? 

She slept badly, and was glad to wake and rise 
early. 

Her father looked troubled when she took him his 
breakfast, but he said he was as well as usual. At 
dinner-time, however, he looked so pale and anxious 
that Ruth felt alarmed, and questioned him. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


113 


“ It is nothing,” he said; “ I had a bad dream, and 
I have been thinking about it. I think I will dine 
here instead of going to the house*place. I am tired, 
that’s all, my girl; and I want to be alone. Kiss 
me, darling, and come to me when you have had 
your dinner.” 

You won’t have your nap, then? ” 

‘^No, I want to talk to you first, child; let Sally 
bring me my dinner.” 

Ruth wondered a little, but it seemed to her that 
this talk would give her an opportunity of proposing 
her father’s visit to Purley. She did not want him 
to go there, but she felt bound to use her strongest 
powers of persuasion, as a sort of atonement for her 
unkindness to Michael Clifford ; for, with the exag- 
geration of a generous nature, she had now put her 
old friend in a higher place than he had perhaps ever 
occupied in her regard. 

She had soon finished her meal, and she stood lean- 
ing out of the open .window of the house-place, wish- 
ing that the heavy gray clouds would lift, or give 
some hope that they meant to break. The air was 
still and heavy, too damp for thunder, or she might 
have dreaded a storm. Presently Ruth walked across 
the big, bare room to the door that led into the farm- 
yard. She had not been out this morning, for she 
had been engaged with Sally Voce, settling that the 
old woman and the girl Faith should in future keep 
the house between them. It was a relief to have 
carried out her plans for economy, Mrs. Voce being 
willing to shut up her cottage for the time that her 
services would be required at Appledore. Ruth was 
bringing up a brood of young bantams, and she 
8 


114 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


wanted to see if they had been properly fed in her 
absence from the poultry yard. There had always 
been an excellent dairy woman at Appledore, and 
Ruth had never interfered with her. She had not a 
turn for butter-making, but she dearly loved young 
stock of all kinds; and she was especially fond of 
rearing poultry. 

As she opened the door she heard her name called, 
and looking over her shoulder she saw Mrs. Voce 
coming into the house-place. 

“Your papa’s a-asking for. you. Miss Ruth; he 
don’t seem wishful for a nap this afternoon. I’ve 
helped he on to the sofa, and now I’m off home to 
see how things are going.” ^ 

Ruth nodded ; she said nothing about the bantams 
to Sally, being well aware that the good woman 
would consider it necessary to give the little crea- 
tures food whether they required it or not. 

Philip Bryant was looking paler than usual, and 
there was a sad expression in his eyes as he fixed 
them on Ruth. 

“Sit down, child,” he said, as she stood bending 
over the fire ; “ I have a good deal to say to you, and 
it is better not to put it off. No one knows how soon 
the end may come ! ” 

The words gave Ruth a shock, but she smiled as 
she placed herself with her back to the light. 

“ The doctor says you are to have a wheel-chair 
when the weather is dryer ; and then you can sit out 
in the garden. You see, dear,” she went on brightly, 
“ you are so accustomed to live in the open air, that 
this long confinement to the house has naturally 
depressed you.” 


APPLEDQRE FARM. 


115 


He shook his head. Come and sit here, darling,” 
he said affectionately ; I like to see your face, and 
I can’t when your back is to the light.” He waited 
while she moved, and then he went on again, I do not 
think I shall be long here, Ruth, in spite of what the 
doctor may say. Dr. Buchan has only attended me 
a matter of four years or so ; I must know best. I 
am not grieved to think it, child, except on your 
account. I wish,” his voice was trembling so that 
he paused to steady it before he went on — I wish I 
had been a better father to you, child ; and I wish, 
too, that your sweet mother had not been taken away 
from me just when I wanted her most. It is too 
late for all that now. There’s an old saying, ^ ’Tis 
no use to cry over spilt milk;’ what I have got to do 
in the time that is left, is to plan out your future.” 

‘^Now,” Ruth smiled brightly, ‘^you are naughty; 
you are trying to do just what the doctor cautioned 
you against. You are trying to worry your dear self, 
and you had much better let me tell you about my 
bantams.” 

He looked wearily at her, and shook his head. 

“I shall not be much longer with you,” he said 
sadly. ‘‘I want you to listen, Ruth. I told you 
before I was taken ill that I was in debt; you had 
better know that I have not paid my own rent these 
three years ; a kind friend has lent me the cash for 
that, and for all my other wants. I have always 
hoped to pay him back, but now I hardly know what 
to think. However, that is not what I want to talk 
over with you. I want to die happy, and I cannot 
if I leave you without a home, or even a roof to shel- 
ter you.” 


116 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


His persistence made the girl’s heart ache; she 
had tried to persuade herself that his illness had 
affected his judgment, and that when he had once 
more breathed the outer air he would be as cheerful 
as ever ; but when she looked at him and saw the 
dark circles under his eyes, and noted the change in 
his voice, she could not help being greatly troubled. 
She put her hand gently on his. “ Father dear, I do 
not think it can be good for you to talk in this way ; 
besides, even if you were much worse than you are 
now, I must tell you that you do not do me justice ; 
you make me out to be helpless,” she laughed so 
gayly that he could not help smiling. I am quite 
able to make my own way in the world, indeed I am. 
I like employment, in fact I hate to be idle ; so that 
it would never be a hardship to me to have to work 
for my own living. You see, darling father, there 
is no need to be anxious about me.” 

He again moved his head wearily. ‘‘ I fancy this 
is the last thing I shall ask you to do for me, ” he 
said reproachfully, “and you will not let me even 
tell you what it is.” 

“ I have something to tell you first,” she said cheer- 
fully; “I have a message from Mr. Clifford.” 

He looked surprised, but she fancied he was 
pleased. 

“He came yesterday while you were asleep; he 
wants you to stay a few days at Purley with him 
and his sister, just for the sake of the change ; and 
when I asked Dr. Buchan this morning he said that 
was just what you wanted, a change of surround- 
ings; it Avill give you a fillip.” 

“ You would go with me? ” her father said. 


AFPLEDORE FARM. 


117 


I was not asked, and there is a good deal to be 
done here. The spring cleaning had to be put off, 
you know ; and it will be much better to get it over 
in your absence, now that you are so much more in 
the house. Besides, Mr. Clifford did not even say he 
should be glad to see me. ” 

Bryant passed his hand across his eyes ; he cleared 
his throat before he spoke again. 

‘^You are blind, my girl; if you thought a little 
more about yourself you must know that the poor 
chap loves you so much that he would like to keep 
you at Burley and never let you go again.” 

Ruth shook her head at this, and looked incredu- 
lous. A flush rose on her father’s pale face, and 
made him more like his old self than he had looked 
since his attack. 

“ Whether you believe it or not, you cannot alter 
facts,” he said in a vexed tone. “ Clifford loves you 
with all his heart and soul, and he wants you be his 
wife.” 

Ruth was as red as a rose. She felt impatient of 
the fixed gaze her father kept on her face. At last 
she said, without looking up : 

It is strange that he should not speak for himself, 
instead of teasing you about his feelings. He has 
never said a word to me.” 

Ah ! that is because he is such a noble fellow ; he 
knows the sort of girl you are, and he shrinks from 
owing your consent to anything but your inclination.” 

don’t understand,” she looked bewildered; she 
thought of her ingratitude yesterday; if Michael 
Clifford really loved her she had been doubly unkind. 
“ What do you mean by ‘sort of girl,’ father? ” 


ns 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


“It’s plain enough,” he ansAvered impatiently; 
“we are largely in his debt, and he knows that you 
are generous ; he may fancy you would accept him 
just to pay off this money and enable me to die in 
peace.” 

There was a silence; the flush faded out of Euth’s 
cheeks, but the shame-stricken look remained there. 
It was terrible to her that her father should be so 
deeply in debt to Mr. Clifford as to make him talk in 
this way. It dawned upon her that he was perhaps 
her father’s only creditor. She sat very still and 
quiet, thinking this over ; she even put the question 
to herself whether, if she had been free to choose, she 
could have acted as her father seemed to think she 
would have acted — just to free him from what she 
felt to be a degrading burden. But Ruth was not 
romantic, and the idea seemed to her high-floAvn and 
repulsive. Unless she could love the man she mar- 
ried she was sure she could not make him happy. 
She longed to say they had already discussed this 
question, but the doctor had told her not to thwart or 
contradict her father. 

She sat silent, her eyes fixed on her hands as they 
lay in her lap. Her father, who was still looking at 
her, saAv that her forehead was puckered with per- 
plexity ; the brightness had faded from her face, and 
she was, he fancied, greatly troubled. 

Philip Bryant was not altogether selfish, although, 
like many another optimist, he became impatient if 
others did not at once adopt his views ; he could not 
make allowance for the struggle they might have to 
undergo in the process ; in fact, he took it for granted 
that what he wished for was the only thing to be 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


119 


done. In this instance it appeared to him that his 
daughter was purely self-willed, and was giving her- 
self useless pain. 

“If you were less prejudiced,” he said, “you must 
see it as I do. I should not propose Michael Clifford 
to you if I were not sure that he would be an excel- 
lent husband.” 

“He might be that,” she said gravely, “and yet 
he might not be a happy one. I am sure a man can- 
not be happy unless his wife loves him.” 

“ And why should you not love him, Ruth? ” 

He was looking at her so inquiringly, that she 
flushed with a sudden fear that he suspected her 
secret. 

“ I know I could not love him as a wife ought to 
love her husband.” 

Her father was careless enough in some things, 
but in a case of this kind he had an almost womanly 
quickness of perception. The color flew to his face, 
and a flash of sudden intelligence brightened his 
heavy eyes. 

“Then you have some reason for objecting,” he 
exclaimed ; “ you care for some one else — I am sure 
of it.” 

She looked up quickly ; his voice was full of excite- 
ment, and she felt greatly alarmed for the conse- 
quences. She took his hand in hers and tried to 
speak as quietly and gently as possible. 

“I may not tell you now,” she said, “ I have 
promised not to speak ; but soon, very soon, I hope 
to be able to tell you something ” — she hesitated — 
“something that will set your mind at rest on my 
account.” 


ICO 


APPLEDOBE FAB3I. 


He drew his hand away, and turned angrily from 
her. 

“ I would not have believed it from any one else — 
even if they’d sworn to it I’d not have believed ; I 
had that trust in you, Ruth, that no one should have 
made me believe you would deceive me. There! 
leave me in peace. I don’t want to quarrel, child. 
God knows you have enough against me as it is. I’ll 
— I’ll try to sleep, if you’ll be good enough to leave 
me quiet.” 

Ruth felt greatly relieved; she had feared ques- 
tions which she could not have answered, and then 
anger at her silence. She guessed that her father 
had exhausted himself in their prolonged discussion, 
and that he would probably soon fall asleep. 

She silently arranged his cushions and placed his ^ 
feet comfortably on the sofa ; then she sat watching 
him. 

Would he go back to the subject when he waked? 
She wondered. She tried bravely to remember her 
mother’s maxim never to meet trouble half-way, and 
she began to plan out her father’s visit to Parley, and 
how soon he would be able to go there. His heavy 
breathing soon told her that he was asleep. A timid 
tap at the door made her rise and open it. The 
little maid Faith stood outside, and began eagerly to 
speak. Ruth raised her hand in warning, and softly 
closed the door behind her. 

“What is it?” she said softly; “speak low; Mr. 
Bryant is asleep.” 

“ It’s a gentleman. Miss, the gentleman as used to 
live here; and he wants to see you. Miss, and I 
wasn’t to say nothing to nobody else but you.” 


CHAPTER XTII. 


Ruth felt as if she were dreaming when she opened 
the door of the sitting-room and saw her lover stand- 
ing just as she had often seen him stand beside the 
hearth, leaning against the high mantel-shelf. She 
had hardly time to look at him, however; became 
quickly forward and took her in his arms, as if they 
two had only parted yesterday. 

M}’ beautiful darling ! my own Ruth ! ” he said ; 
and he pressed her closely to him and covered her 
sweet face with passionate kisses. 

The glow of delight she felt at finding herself once 
more with him and at being thus assured that he 
loved her dearly in spite of all her doubts and fears 
made her look more than ever beautiful, and for the 
moment concealed the traces of fatigue which yester- 
day had made Michael Clifford’s heart ache. Sud- 
denly she broke into passionate crying and hid her 
eyes on her lover’s shoulder. 

“What is it, darling?” He was half-alarmed, 
half -vexed; she was far more lovely than he had 
thought she was ; he was not surprised at the love he 
felt for her; certainly he had not seen any one so 
beautiful since they parted. 

“Are you not glad to see me, my Ruth? ” he said 
in the gentle, refined voice she remembered so well. 

Ruth wiped away her tears, and then she smiled 
up at him. 


m 


122 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


“ I cried because I was so glad, so very, very glad. 
I have been so lonely all this while ; I have wanted to 
ask you so many things,” she said tenderly. 

He slipped his hand under her chin and looked at 
her sweet face with increasing admiration. For- 
merly her frank simplicity had seemed a part of her 
surroundings; it now gave him a delicious sense of 
security in the possession of her love. 

“ Is that all the sweet pet wanted me for? Any 
old graybeard would have done for an adviser, would 
not he? ” 

She blushed, and quivered all over with the delight 
she felt in his mere presence. All her anxieties 
seemed laid to rest ; it was so sweet only to look at 
him : to listen to him was an added delight. 

He di’ew her to the sofa and they sat down side by 
side, while he kept his arm round her waist. Ruth 
was much less shy with him ; perhaps there is some 
truth in the old saying — some love does strengthen 
in absence. But Ruth’s love had been at first sought 
too suddenly — before it had had time to develop. Its 
very strength had at that time alarmed her, and she had 
struggled to repress it. All these months it had been 
growing steadily, and in the light of his dear pres- 
ence and in the intense trust she felt in him, she 
gave herself up to her happiness and to the thank- 
fulness she felt for his constancy. 

“You see,” she said shyly, for his warm kisses 
made her shrink in spite of herself, “ since my father’s 
illness began I have not been able to consult him 
about anything ; and, as I told you, we shall have to 
leave Appledore, because — because we cannot afford 
to stay on here.” 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


123 


He was looking at her, but he was not listening 
with much interest. 

“ You said something about it in your letter, dear- 
est; and the best way out of it is — well, my precious 
girl, I have come to arrange that with you.” 

The girl’s heart seemed to lighten with the sudden 
relief she felt ; all would be right now that she had 
this dear counsellor beside her. She looked up in his 
face with the implicit trust of a child, as she said : 

“ I may now tell my father we are engaged, may 
not I? It will make him so happy; you know how 
fond he was of you. ” 

“That was very good of him.” Bevington spoke 
absently, as if he were thinking of something else. 

“Then I may tell him?” she persisted; “I am 
afraid he has begun to suspect already.” 

Bevington bent down and kissed her. 

“ No, dearest; you must not tell him just directly. 
It would hamper me, and besides it would be useless. 
You have waited so long that it is better to be pa- 
tient just a little longer ; only a little while, my Ruth. 
Do not look so grave! it spoils your face. I like 
your smiles best, my angel.” 

He said this rather repressively, and she feared 
she had vexed him. 

“ Please do not be angry ! ” she said humbly ; “ I 
will tell you why I can’t wait, then you will under- 
stand. Father has asked me to marry Mr. Clifford.” 

“ Curse the fellow’s impudence ! ” Rising abruptly 
from the sofa, he began to pace the room. He was 
furious that this “clodhopper,” as he mentally called 
Clifford, should dare to love Ruth. The idea had 
put an obstacle in his way which he had not counted 


124 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


on. It had seemed to him that her father’s incapable 
state had taken away a hindrance to his designs; 
and he had not believed in the existence of external 
interference. At last he quieted himself, and he 
turned to look at Ruth. 

She had expected he would be angry, and she sat 
with a frightened look, waiting for him to speak. 

He came and stood in front of her. 

“You mean, I suppose, that this fellow had made 
you an offer, and you want me to tell you whether 
you should accept it? ” 

Ruth rose to her feet. Her cheeks and eyes glowed, 
and her figure seemed grander in her agitation. She 
did not reproach him, but her voice sounded very sad. 

“ Mr. Clifford has never said a word to me on the 
subject; and if he did, how could I even think of 
marrying him when I love you? ” 

He stood silent ; he was shamed, in spite of all his 
worldliness, by the simple truth of her words. But 
the next minute he smiled at his own folly. It was 
clear to him ; he had thought it when he read her 
letter, and now he felt sure of it. Ruth wanted to 
be relieved from debt, and to keep a comfortable home 
for her father. Well, he could manage both those 
matters for her ; but he meant to take his own way 
of doing it ; anyhow, he meant to make his darling 
girl happy. 

He took Ruth’s hand. 

“Sit down again, my child; of course I was only 
teasing you, though it made me mad just at first 
that such a fellow as that should dare to look at you 
even. Now, look here.” He had put his arm round 
her again, and her head nestled confidingly on his 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


125 


shoulder. ‘‘ I had meant to wait, but — well, darling, 
now I have seen you again, darling, I can’t wait. 
That’s the simple truth, sweet one. I must take you 
away, Ruth, as soon as you can leave your father. ” 

“He is going away from me soon,” she said 
thoughtfully ; “ please you must let me tell him be- 
fore he leaves me ! ” 

“You shall tell him in your own way, dear girl; 
but not till I give you leave.” 

She smiled at this and looked up brightly. 

“ I cannot marry you till I have told him then, 
looking down, she blushed at her own daring. 

“I shall never give you up,” he said, but she felt 
that he was looking away from her ; “ but, unfortu- 
nately, at present I am not in a position to marry 
you ; I must wait a little. I shall never be a free 
man in the way I told you about ; things are changed ; 
I am dependent on my father and mother, and they 
would not consent to let me marry any one who had 
not a fortune.” 

Ruth looked at him very sadly; then she drew 
herself gently away from him. 

“ I understand now,” she said; “you came to tell 
me this; you can never marry me,” he heard a sob 
in her voice; “but, oh, why did you come again? It 
has made parting so much worse. Why did you 
say just now yon would soon take me away? ” 

He started up from the sofa as if something had 
sharply stung him. He w^^alked up and down before 
he answered. At last he stood again in front of her. 

“ Life is full of chances and changes, my girl ; no 
one can see into the future. There are women who 
will bear any vexation and trouble for the sake of 


126 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


being with the man they love ; I thought you were 
one like this. And there are others who cannot even 
bear the weight of a secret. You understand now, 
by what I have told you, why I cannot let you tell 
your father that I love you. I have already gone 
through so much vexation on this subject that — that 
I had almost determined not to see you again ; but I 
could not resist your summons. After all, it is not 
I who am to blame for this meeting, Ruth.” 

He was looking gravely at her ; she did not guess 
that he was trying her. The light seemed suddenly 
to fade from the future that just now had shown itself 
full of sunshine. Ruth hid her face in her hands ; 
she was too wretched to cry. Her heart ached with 
a strange new pain that was almost intolerable. At 
last she looked up, and he thought her eyes swam 
with tenderness; and he longed to take her in his 
arms again, but something kept him back ; he did 
not yet feel sure of her. 

“ I do not blame you,” she said; “ I am grateful to 
you for coming. Even if I never see you again I 
have had this happy time with you, and I can never 
forget it. I shall never leave off loving you. I shall 
look for your name and feel proud of you, even ^hen 
I know you have married some one else. It will be 
different with you; you must forget me; it would 
make your wife unhappy if you even thought of me ; 
and you could not do such a wrong as that.” She 
rose and held out her hand. “Good-by, dear, dear 
Reggy ! Ah ! how happy I was when you wrote and 
asked me to call you so ! I shall think of you and 
pray for you always.” 

He had taken possession of her hand; his other 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


127 


arm had slipped round her ; she did not resist it ; it 
was the last time, she thought. 

“ Don’t talk about my marrying anybody else ! I 
shall never forget you or give you up,” he whispered 
passionately. “ All will come right. Promise only 
that you will come to me when I want you! You 
must; I cannot live without you; you are the one 
love of my life. You do not care for position or out- 
ward show, do you 3 darling? You only care for me 
and for my love ; and I swear you shall have both, 
let who will come in the way. You are mine, only 
mine, are you not, my Ruth ? ” 

“Yes,” she whispered. 

Another fond embrace, another request that she 
would keep silence about his visit as well as his love, 
and he left her — so agitated, so carried out of herself, 
that she could not think with any coherence. She 
did not go to the door with him ; she sat half-stupefied 
with over- wrought feeling. At first she could only 
call up the memory of the dear face that had so lately 
been pressed close to hers, and the tender love that 
she had listened to. She hardly knew how their 
meeting had ended ; he had said he would not give 
her up, and yet he had said that he was dependent 
on his parents, and must therefore marry to please 
them. Could he have meant — her heart grew lighter 
as the thought came — that he intended to distinguish 
himself, and so earn a livelihood for himself, and 
with it the right to marry whom he pleased? Ruth 
shrank into herself a little at the idea of marrying 
him without the consent of those proud parents, but 
she believed that they would never like to accept her 
as a daughter, even if the question of means had not 


128 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


arisen. He evidently meant to live a quiet, retired 
life with her, or he would not have said that about 
position. Was it indeed possible that he, the light 
of her life, would one day be hers, her own darling 
husband? She started from this thought with a 
quick flush of shame ; she had entirely forgotten her 
father, whom she had left sleeping ; she had forgotten 
every one but Mr. Bevington. 

Before she could reach the door Mrs. Voce came into 
the room. She closed the door cautiously behind her, 
and then she looked suspiciously at Ruth. The girl 
reddened under the look, but in a moment she held her 
head erect ; she was determined to keep her promise. 

“You have had a visitor, I hear, miss.” 

Ruth broke in gravely : 

“You must say nothing about it to Mr. Bryant, 
Sally. Mr. Bevington did not see him. I told him 
about the illness ; it would have greatly agitated my 
father to see a comparative stranger. Until he is 
quite himself again he must not hear of this visit ; 
it would rouse up painful recollections. You had 
better tell Faith not to speak of it to any one, lest it 
should come round.” Then she went on with an 
abrupt change of voice, “ My father is going to stay 
a few days with Mr. Clifford and his sister. It is so 
kind of them to ask him, and we can do the spring 
cleaning while he is at Purley.” 

“Yes, miss.” 

The suspicious look remained on Sally Voce’s face. 
“I’d like to know,” she muttered as Ruth left the 
room, “ what call that smart young gentleman had 
to come like a thief in the night after Miss Ruth. 
I’m going to keep my eyes open.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


When Michael Clifford left Appledore he rode to 
a manor-house some miles away. He had business 
in the neighborhood, and he dined and slept with his 
friends at the manor-house. To-day, on his return 
to Purley, he left his horse at the stables, which were 
beside the town gate, at the bottom of the broad, 
steep street in which his house stood. 

It has been said that a man’s house, when his cir- 
cumstances permit him to choose it, is an indication 
of his character; and when Michael Clifford opened 
his low, wide entrance door there was something re- 
assuring and restful in the spotless space of the square 
hall. The doors on all sides showed that several 
rooms opened on to it. A round table in its centre 
held writing materials and a neatly arranged row of 
newspapers. On the right was an old-fashioned, 
easy-going staircase, with a mahogany hand-rail and 
carved balusters; the staircase looked old, but it was 
not cumbrous, and it contrasted happily with the 
white paint of the doors and skirting and the white 
distemper of the walls. There was something at 
once moderate and useful about this part of the 
house. 

Clifford’s dining-room, his library, and also his 
business-room were on this ground-floor ; but when 
he entered the house he went straight to the staircase, 
and then along a passage which led him to a charm- 
9 129 


lao 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


ing, spacious room with two windows at its farther 
end, overlooking the open country. The room was 
comfortably and amply furnished, but everything 
was simple. The sofas and chairs were perhaps 
extra luxurious, but the presence of the tiny lady lying 
stretched on one of them, wrapped in a soft, white 
shawl, accounted for this, as well as for the revolv- 
ing book-shelves, placed close within her reach, and 
the reading-stand, with its long, brass arm, close by. 
The opening door made the invalid look round ; she 
raised herself into a sitting position, and smiled as 
her brother came up to her sofa and kissed her. 

Dorothy Clifford had her brother’s dark complex- 
ion, but with that, all likeness between them ended. 
Her eyes, instead of being a blue-gray, were dark 
brown — so intense in color that they often looked 
black. Her features were delicate and somewhat 
attenuated, but her little nose had a slight upward 
tilt, and this gave an indescribable sauciness to the 
small, dark face. She was older than her brother 
was, but she was not much past thirty. She was a 
comparative invalid, but she had been told that with 
care she might possibly regain the power of walking, 
vrhich for some years had almost left her, though she 
could move from room to room and her general health 
was sometimes fairly good. 

“Well, Dolly,” her brother said, as he came up to 
her, “ I know you like to be benevolent ; so yesterday 
I took upon myself to give an invitation in your 
name. I hope you will endorse it.” 

“That depends,” she said, smiling. 

“Well, I have invited my poor paralyzed friend 
Bryant to come and spend a few days here ; and I 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


131 


have also promised that you will take care of him. 
What do you say to that — eh, sister? ” 

She looked a little less bright, but she still smiled. 

‘‘We shall be very glad to see Mr. Bryant,” she 
said graciously. “Was it to Mr. Bryant you said I 
would take care of him? Men sometimes do not like 
the idea of being taken care of by strangers.” 

Her nose tilted a little as she uttered this last 
sentence. 

“ I did not say anything to Bryant ; I spoke to his 
daughter.” Clifford looked away ; he felt impatient 
under the searching gaze which his sister had fixed 
on his face. 

“ Did you ask Miss Bryant to come, too? ” 

There was a certain mockery in her tone, and it 
seemed to hurt him. 

He turned away abruptly and looked out of 
the window. 

“ I should not venture to invite a lady to the house ; 
that is your province, Dorothy,” he said over his 
shoulder. 

“ I do not know Miss Bryant,” she said dryly. 

Clifford was not irritable, and his sister’s manner 
helped to keep his judgment calm and unprejudiced ; 
but for all his calmness he could sometimes be very 
angry. 

“You do not know Miss Bryant because you will 
not,” he said, so sternly that Dorothy felt just a little 
nervous. “ It would have been kind of you — chari- 
table, too — to show some friendship to a motherless 
girl, left alone, one may say, since her grandfather 
died; for her father is not the sort of a man to ad vise 
a girl of her age,” 


132 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


Dorothy was looking at her delicate fingers. 

Miss Bryant has always had you to advise her, 
Michael. I know little about young girls and their 
ways.” 

“Ah, well! you know what I wish, Dorothy.” 

He seemed ashamed of his own sternness, for 
he left the window and came and sat down beside 
her. 

“ Look here ! ” he said, “ I believe one gains nothing 
by beating about the bush. I am sure you wish me 
to be happy, Dolly. It is better to say frankly that 
I cannot be happy without Ruth Bryant. I want 
her to be my wife.” 

Dorothy knew it. She had known it this long 
while, and yet it gave her exquisite pain to hear it 
said by her brother. She could have shaken him for 
his blind folly ; he, as she thought, who might marry 
any one he chose, who might have the pick of the 
Burley girls — only there was not one good enough 
for him — he, to throw himself away on this farmer’s 
daughter, who, if all stories were true, was only 
another man’s leavings ! 

“ Are you engaged to her? ” 

Her voice told him how vexed she was. 

“ I should not have asked her to be my wife without 
giving you some kind of warning, Dorothy. I have 
waited for several reasons, one being that I hoped for 
your sympathy. You must like Ruth Bryant if you 
saw her or knew something about her; but you won’t 
take any interest in her.” 

“ Perhaps I do know something about Miss Bryant ; 
and perhaps what I have heard has not made me 
think well of her,” 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


133 


“ I did not think you, of all people, would listen to 
gossip,” he said angrily. 

I do not think it was gossip, Michael ; it came from 
that poor, hard-worked doctor’s wife, Mrs. Buchan. 
She told me that Miss Bryant was very handsome, 
and also that she was very fond of flirting.” 

‘‘That is a falsehood,” he said impetuously. “I 
have known her ever since she was a child, and she 
never attempted to flirt with me.” 

“Very likely not, but that is no proof that she 
does not flirt. Don’t you see, Michael? She looks 
on you as an old friend. You are probably not the 
sort of man she would venture to flirt with; she 
probably regards you as a brother.” 

Michael looked hard at his sister ; he saw that she 
was not saying this to tease him ; she was evidently 
in earnest, and convinced of the truth of her words. 

He was very much annoyed, but he felt that she 
was trying to save him from disappointment, and he 
tried to speak patiently as he answered : 

“ For all that, I shall ask her to be my wife when 
she is less anxious about her father. Now that you 
know this, Dolly, will you not ask her to come and 
see you during her father’s visit, or whenever you 
please? ” 

Men always manage these matters so clumsily. 
Michael did not dream of the pain he had given by 
his announcement, and so he deepened it by his next 
words. 

“If I were you,” Dorothy’s nose had a decidedly 
upward tilt while she spoke, “ I should be quite sure 
before I offered myself that there was not some one 
else in the way.” 


134 


APPLEDORE FAR3L 


He turned suddenly from her, and his voice was 
very stern. “ Take care what you are saying, Doro- 
thy ; I do not want to hear gossip repeated about any 
one I care for.” 

Dorothy was becoming very unhappy. She and 
her brother had sometimes had a little dispute, but 
he had never spoken to her in this way — as if he 
thought she was telling falsehoods for her own ends. 
She had grown very pale while she listened to him. 

“ I would rather be silent, Michael. I can’t bear 
you to be angry with me, and yet I feel that you 
ought not to go blindfold into the affair without any 
warning. I thought you probably knew something 
about it, but I cannot think you do, after what you’ve 
said.” 

“ What do you mean by something? It would be 
much better to speak out than to make such a mouth- 
ing,” he said, with angry disgust. 

I mean about that pupil, that Mr. Bevington. 
His mother, it seems, found out that he was fond of 
the girl ; and that was why he had to leave in such a 
hurry. Did you not hear why he went away so 
unexpectedly? ” 

Clifford felt suddenly cold. Bevington’s sudden 
departure had often puzzled him, and Bryant’s an- 
swer to his question on the subject had been unsatis- 
factory. The farmer had said that the young fellow’s 
father had made other arrangements for him; and 
Clifford had concluded that Mr. Bevington was not 
satisfied with the teaching he got at Appledore, which 
was certainly an old-fashioned farm, with few mod- 
ern appliances belonging to it. 

‘^That is a mere folly,” he said, though his face 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


135 


flushed with burning jQalousy ; Mr. Bryant kept his 
daughter away for some time, and then the hours, 
and — and so forth, were so arranged that there was 
little chance that she would see much of the pupil.” 

Dorothy Clifford smiled and shrugged her delicate 
shoulders. 

“ I hear she has been seen walking in the garden 
with him ; and after he went away she met him alone 
in the Mill Valley.” 

“ That settles me. ” He rose up from his chair in 
stern indignation.* The whole story is a fabrica- 
tion. So good, so beautiful a creature is sure to have 
enemies ; and what will not one woman say of an- 
other when she is jealous of her? Ruth Bryant 
would never meet any man alone away from her 
home, unless he were her promised husband. Be- 
sides, if there had been anything between her and 
that young fellow, do you suppose he could have kept 
away all these months from Appledore? ” 

He turned to leave the room, full of that which he 
considered to be righteous indignation. 

must tell you something more, Michael,” his 
sister said ; she had been pained and startled by his 
anger, but it must be simply her duty to warn him 
about Ruth Bryant. Dorothy considered, judging 
from what she had been told, that the girl had be- 
haved indiscreetly, to say the least of it. She feared 
that she had compromised herself with the pupil, and 
that now she wished to patch up her reputation and 
also pay her father’s debts by marrying Dorothy’s 
brother. 

The small, fragile woman looked very determined 
as she said, “ Mr. Bevington rode past the house this 


136 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


morning, going toward Church-Marshfield. You 
did not go to Appledore this morning or you must 
have met him on your way home.” 

Her brother stood staring at her ; this news had 
quieted him. 

“How could you see him? ” he said; “you cannot 
see who passes.” 

“ I stayed downstairs this morning to finish the 
half-year’s accounts,” she answered quietly. “I 
scarcely know why I looked out of the window, but I 
did; and I distinctly saw Mr. Bevington pass.” 

Michael left the room; he was very angry. He 
knew that he had been harsh with his sister, but he 
could not bring himself to say so. He was disap- 
pointed in Dorothy; he had considered her large- 
minded, compared with others of her sex, though she 
had always vexed him by her indifference about 
making acquaintance with Ruth Bryant. That had 
been caused, he used to think, by Dorothy’s exagger- 
ated opinion of him and of what he had a right to 
expect in a wife. He had often smiled at the thought 
of his sister’s surprise when she should be presented 
to Ruth. This slander she had passed on to him was 
something quite different. If he knew the originator 
of it, he felt that he should like to punish that per- 
son. As to Dorothy, he should go out and stay out 
till dinner-time ; and then he should try to meet her 
as if nothing had happened. 

Michael Clifford had always more to do than he 
knew how to accomplish, so that he could easily find 
engagements for this afternoon ; but he did not seek 
for them; he was bent on walking out along the 
Appledore road. - — 


APPLEDOBE FARM. 


137 


This led down the steep street to the dark, low- 
browed archway that was still called Broadgate, the 
last remaining defence of the once strongly fortified 
town of Purley. He smiled when he had passed 
through the gateway and found himself on the 
quickly descending road outside. If he disbelieved 
this scandal, he asked himself why he was walking 
in such a hurried way toward Appledore. The road 
led straight to the bridge across the river, and Clifford 
forced himself to linger while he watched the lovely 
light on the water. The river foamed itself into a 
froth of snowy whiteness over the weir below the full- 
ing-mill. On the other side the lofty bank, which 
seemed piled up with huge irregular blocks of lime- 
stone, was half -hidden by a tall overgrowth of trees. 

Michael stood watching the golden patches of light 
on the water where they found their way in gaps 
between the trees. He was telling himself that he 
had been absurdly reticent toward Ruth. She might 
suppose from his guarded manner that he was in- 
different about her good opinion, that he did not care 
for her in any way. Would it not be wiser, more 
manly, to own his love to her, and tell her he 
would wait patiently till she could love him in return? 
He sauntered on, debating this question while he 
climbed the steep ascent beyond the bridge. Before 
he reached the top a horseman came in sight on the 
brow of the hill, horse and rider magnified in size 
against the clear blue sky behind. 

In another moment the horse and his rider passed 
Clifford, and he recognized Reginald Bevington. 
The young fellow’s hat was pulled over his eyes ; he 
did not seem to see Clifford. 


138 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


Michael turned and stood looking after him. 

“After all,” he said gravely, “why should I be 
like a woman, and fancy what does not exist? He 
has most likely heard of Mr. Bryant’s seizure, and 
naturally he has gone over to inquire for him. He 
may be staying in the neighborhood. If there had 
been anything between him and Ruth he would have 
gone to Appledore before now.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


Philip Bryant had been a week at Parley, and 
Ruth, meanwhile, was so busy superintending the 
house-cleaning at Appledore that, except in the even- 
ings, she had not had time to feel dull without him. 
This morning she had received two letters. One of 
them only contained a few lines from Mr. Clifford, 
giving an excellent report of her father’s progress, and 
asking her to spare him to them a few days longer. 

Ruth sat down at once and answered this request 
by writing to her father ; and then she went out into 
the garden and walked up and down on the wet, 
creaking gravel below her bedroom window while 
she read her other letter. 

It was from Mr. Bevington. The girl had become 
so aware of Sally Voce’s constant Avatchfulness that 
she kept on this side of the house, out of sight, while 
she read. Her cheeks glowed at her lover’s passion- 
ate words. The yoimg fellow wrote that he could 
not live any longer without her ; he had fancied he 
could wait, but he found that was impossible. His 
darling must come to him without delay. Surely, 
he went on, she cared enough for him to risk some- 
thing for his sake ; and then he gave the details of 
his plan. He asked Ruth to meet him three days 
from the date of his letter at the old stone on the 
moor, about three miles from Appledore, a little way 
beyond the out-of-the-way village called AU Marsh- 
139 


140 


APPLEDOBE EAPM. 


field. The letter was tender as well as passionate. 
Her lover said that she would not only make him 
happier than he had ever been in his life, but that 
she would also make a better man of him. Her 
sweet, unselfish companionship would be both a help 
and an example. 

Ruth kissed the loving words, but she felt sorely 
troubled ; it was so hard to refuse her lover’s passion- 
ate request, and yet she could not leave Appledore in 
her father’s absence and without his knowledge; for 
Mr. Bevington said that she must not speak of his 
proposal to any one. She walked up and down, try- 
ing to judge for the best; this was the first time she 
had been called on to decide an urgent question on 
her own responsibility, and she found it for some 
time impossible to come to a decision. Mr. Beving- 
ton was of course his own master; he probably was 
accustomed to act without consulting his parents, 
but she felt that her case was very different; she 
could not desert her father when he was ill and in 
such trouble ; she could not go away to be married 
without consulting him beforehand. 

She had grown tired of walking up and down be- 
fore she arrived at a resolution. Sally Voce sent 
Faith to call her in to dinner, but Ruth did not heed 
the summons. At last she roused herself from this 
puzzled revery and went in-doors. Mr. Bevington 
had told her that he was going to London, and that 
she must write to him at his club ; she decided to 
post her letter at All Marshfield so as to avoid notice. 

She wrote to him a sweet, tender little letter, 
thanking him for all his love ; but she asked him to 
wait till she had told his plan to her father. Then, 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


141 


if he consented, she would meet her lover as he 
wished. She added that she must ask Reggy to give 
her father a home ; he was too infirm at present to be 
left alone. She blushed deeply while she wrote ; she 
was so shy in the midst of her tender joy. 

“Father will consent; I know he will,” she told 
herself, while her eyes grew liquid with love. “ It 
is not that he is so set on Mr. Clifford ; he only wants 
to be sure that I shall have a home of my own. He 
must prefer that I should be happy with the man I 
love.” 

She walked rapidly with her letter to the little 
sequestered village. It seemed to her that something 
would happen to prevent the posting it ; and then, 
when she dropped it into the little box fixed on the 
wall of the lonely parsonage, her heart grew light 
again, though it throbbed with hope and with expec- 
tation. All at once she stood still on the muddy 
road, for a new perplexity had come to trouble herl 
her lover might refuse to wait till she had consulted 
her father ; he might answer her letter in person, and 
insist on taking her away with him. What should 
she do if this happened? 

She repeated this question as she walked along the 
high-road. On one side the everlasting hills looked 
down on her from their green summits ; on the other 
a large width of cultivated land intervened before the 
loftier and grayer giants of the region broke into the 
horizon and shortened daylight in the valley. 

Ruth was twenty-one, but she was still a child in 
her experience of life. She had no precedents to 
guide her ; she had not even enjoyed the borrowed 
experiences of a school-taught girl. She had lived 


142 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


lapped in the restful obscurity of her own village, 
like a butterfly in the chrysalis state of its existence, 
with only an occasional sense of wings that might 
unfold themselves when they found opportunity. 

“If I only knew,” she said, with a passionate 
earnestness, “ what was best for me to do ! ” She 
soon brought herself to be sure that this “ best ” must 
be with Mr. Bevington. He loved her so dearly, she 
was sure he would be willing to have her father to 
live with them. She tried to put herself and her 
own joy in her marriage out of the question. She 
wanted a good home for her father, a home in which 
she might be with him. She had found out in this 
week of separation how anxiously her thoughts clung 
to him; she was always wondering how he could 
manage at Purley without her or Sally. Mr. Clifford 
had assured her that he would be well cared for, so 
she could only trust that all was well. She asked 
herself why she should hesitate to marry her beloved 
Reggy, if she could provide this desired home for her 
father. She could neither answer this question nor 
bring herself to alter the decision which her letter 
would convey to her lover. 

Mrs. Voce was at the gate waiting for her; her 
small eyes, now twinkling with expectation, were 
impinged on by her plump, pink cheeks; a general 
plumpness, be it remarked, had certainly increased 
in Sally during her stay at Appledore. Her lips 
were slightly parted with an inquisitive expression, 
as she watched for her young mistress’ approach; 
and Ruth, as she drew near, could not help seeing 
that the old woman’s expression was furtive. 

“ There be a letter for you, Miss Bryant,” she said. 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


143 


set it on the writing-table in the parlor. The 
rector have drove into Purley for second post, an’ he 
have got it, he says, along o’ his.” 

She stood aside to let Ruth pass on to the house ; 
the girl could not help smiling at the increase of 
respect which had come with Sally’s apparent sus- 
picions. 

She looked very happy when she saw that her letter 
was from Mrs. Whishaw. In it her aunt asked Ruth 
to come and spend the rest of her father’s absence 
with her and her cousin. 

It would be very nice to go,” Ruth thought; but 
she saw that she could not leave Appledore during 
these coming days. Mr. Bevington would certainly 
write, if he did not come over. She could not go 
away, though she longed to be with her aunt and with 
Peggy. She thought that without betraying her 
secret she might sound her aunt on this subject of a 
secret marriage. Ruth did not like his plan, but then 
a great change had come into her life since she had 
refused Mr. Bevington’s proposal in the Mill Valley. 

She read the letter again ; her own longing to get 
away, to be safe with her aunt, puzzled her. 

‘^I must be getting weak-headed,” she said, smil- 
ing. She felt that something was still in the enve- 
lope, and she took it out mechanically with her free 
hand while she reread the letter. It was so affec- 
tionately worded, Ruth’s heart swelled as she thought 
of the treasure her cousin Peggy possessed in a 
mother like this. The next minute she rebuked her- 
self as ungrateful. Peggy had lost her father so 
early that she could not even remember him. A 
postscript on the fourth page of the letter had escaped 


144 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


her notice on first reading her aunt’s letter; it was 
only these words : 

“I enclose* a newspaper cutting from yesterday’s 
paper; a friend of Peggy’s gave it her. We want to 
know if it is about your father’s Mr. Bevington.” 

The letter fluttered out of Ruth’s hand as she hur- 
ried to examine the enclosure. While she read it 
she grew pale; her eyelids drooped; she seemed to 
shrink together, to lose some of her height, as she 
stood beside the writing-table. This was what she 
read: 

“We learn that a marriage has been arranged to 
take place in late autumn between Mr. Reginald 
Louis Alfred Bevington, only son of Ralph Boynton 
Bevington, Esq., of Bevington Manor, near Vixens- 
grove, and Miss Clara Stretton, only daughter of 
Marmadukq Sydney Stretton, Esq., of Castle Stret- 
ton, in the same county.” 

Ruth felt unable to move ; her heart seemed sud- 
denly stilled from its fluttering. 

At last she put the paper down on the table and 
passed her hand slowly across her forehead; she 
wondered if she had been dreaming. The answer 
came with a shiver that ran through her from her 
head to her feet. No, she was awake; she had been 
standing while she read her aunt’s letter and this bit 
of printed paper. Instinctively she put out her hand 
for the cutting and crumpled it into her pocket. 

What did it mean? Was it a mere bit of gossip? 
She had heard that newspapers put in news which 
was sometimes contradicted later on. She still felt 
leaden, as if her feet were soldered to the floor. After 
a time which seemed to her so long and painful that 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


145 


she could hardly bear it, but which she dared not 
disturb even by a movement, lest she should tangle 
the clew which was gradually unravelling itself from 
her bewilderment, a sudden remembrance came to 
her of a story she had heard at her aunt’s. She had 
gone by Mrs. Whishaw’s request to see a sick man, 
a carpenter who worked occasionally at the house. 
The man had turned sullenly away from her, but his 
wife, in a burst of grief, had told Ruth that his illness 
was more mental than bodily : their only daughter 
had been, the woman said, ’ticed away by some one 
who had promised to marry her and had deceived 
her.” The girl had written this to her mother a 
month after she left home, and had said she meant 
to put an end to herself, as she could not bear the 
disgrace that had come to her. Since then no news 
had come from her, and the parents had given up 
all hope of seeing her again. 

A mist swam before Ruth’s eyes; she put out her 
hand and pressed it firmly on the table ; it seemed to 
her that she was falling. Then she struggled to free 
herself from the horrible doubt that had seized her ; 
she asked herself how she dared suspect her lover 
because of a mere newspaper report. 

She could not, however, shake herself free from 
the torment it had caused her. At first she thought 
of writing to him and telling him what she had 
heard; but this idea was soon rejected. She could 
not have borne that he should doubt her ; how, then, 
could she insult him by such an implied doubt of his 
honor? Mrs. Bevington must be very proud of her 
son, and would naturally have ambitious views for 
him ; it was possible that she might wish for this 
10 


146 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


marriage with Miss Stretton, and might have spoken 
about it among her friends ; and then, somehow, the 
story, as often happened with stories, had taken shape 
in this newspaper announcement. 

Presently Ruth raised her head; her perplexity 
had cleared ; she resolved to trust, to try to be patient. 
Reggy would certainly see or hear of this paragraph, 
and he would himself come over and explain it. She 
was inclined to smile at her own changeableness ; she 
had dreaded his coming; she knew it would be so 
hard to resist his pleading ; and now she was longing 
to see him. It seemed to her she owed him great 
atonement for the doubt of his truth she had indulged 
just now. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


Mrs. Bevington understood her son, and she 
trusted to his weakness — a weakness which had often 
helped her to carry out her wishes regarding him. 
She doated on this dearly loved only child ; but she 
knew that, although he was obstinate in adhering to 
any plan he had formed, he was also exceedingly 
impressionable ; and that it would greatly help her 
plans, even if it did not make this marriage with 
Miss Stretton a certainty, if Reginald could be 
brought thoroughly to realize the command of money 
he must possess as her husband. It had not been 
difficult to do this, and Clara’s insignificance, added 
to her extreme gentleness, had helped to deepen the 
young fellow’s impression that she would make a 
desirable wife. She was not a beauty, but she was 
pleasant-looking, and he could not help being sure 
that she liked him. 

It must be said that, in her way, Clara Stretton 
was very fond of her old playfellow. She was one of 
those women who will make dutiful and affectionate 
wives if they are kindly treated, without feeling the 
need of any special affinity between them and their 
husbands. 

There was little depth of feeling in Mrs. Beving- 
ton, but her perception was very keen. She had early 
sounded the depth of Clara’s nature, and she had 
determined that the girl should not be allowed to for- 
147 


148 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


get Reginald. Clara was likely, if left to herself, to 
accept the first man who presented himself as a pros- 
pective husband ; and Mrs. Bevington had therefore 
taken good care that Clara should not be allowed to 
make such a mistake. 

This year Mr. Stretton had suffered so constantly 
from gout that, to his wife’s dismay, he had elected 
to spend the spring at Castle Stretton ; and Mrs. Bev- 
ington had therefore made the sacrifice of remaining 
at the manor-house during May and June, except for 
one fortnight lately, when she persuaded Clara’s 
parents to allow the girl to accompany her to London. 
Reginald went with his mother, and before they re- 
turned to the country he found that he had engaged 
himself to Clara Stretton. The day after this had 
taken place, the excitement over, he remembered 
Ruth and he felt thoroughly disgusted with himself 
and with the world. He went back to the country, 
but before he saw Clara again, in his despair he 
wrote that letter to Ruth. He determined not to 
give her up, whatever happened. He did not at- 
tempt to plan his future ; he was willing to let himself 
drift. He told himself that if Ruth listened to his 
proposal, and came willingly to the meeting-place he 
had appointed, she would have chosen her own lot ; 
he could not be held answerable for what might hap- 
pen. He meant to provide handsomely for Ruth and 
for her father. After all, she would be his real wife, 
in all but name ; and she was the only woman he 
had truly loved. There was, of course, the chance 
that Ruth might prove restive, and refuse to belong 
to him on those conditions ; he did not see his way 
clearly in this last case. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


149 


There is no use in forecasting, ” he thought ; “ if the 
worst comes to the worst, I must marry Ruth privately 
and get out of the Stretton business by degrees.” 

He was determined not to give up the love that he 
knew was his. Some day he should be his own mas- 
ter, and then he could do as he pleased. 

In London he fell in with several of his men 
friends ; a long talk with one of them. Colonel Scud- 
amore, on the afternoon of his arrival, made him 
extremely doubtful about the wisdom of such a mar- 
riage as he contemplated. While he talked to his 
fashionable, polished friend, a man so deeply versed in 
the wisdom of this world that he at once divined the 
perplexity in which the young fellow stood, Reginald 
seemed to realize little by little how young and igno- 
rant he was ; he saw that his scruples were those of 
a mere boy. His mother had often told him that he 
was made for society if he were to condemn him- 
self to a private marriage with Ruth his prospects 
would be ruined ; he could not visit any one. And 
yet she was so very beautiful that she would attract 
a very undesirable amount of notice. Setting aside 
his mother’s opposition, he thought he could soon 
overcome his father’s. He did not see how he could 
produce Ruth in society as his wife till several years 
of cultivation had passed over her. She was unques- 
tionably a lady. She would not have pleased his 
fastidious taste, he argued, if she had been less refined 
in feeling ; but he fancied she wanted rather more 
than this. She wanted conventional ideas about 
dress and the little things that fit a woman for soci- 
ety. She was almost provokingly simple, and she 
might be slow in taking up new ideas. 


150 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


He told himself all this, and then he thought of 
Ruth as he had last seen her, with the increased 
charm which love had given to her beauty; his 
objections fled, and he resolved to go down next 
morning to Appledore. 

There was a station at Church-Marshfleld, much 
nearer to the farm than Purley Junction was; but so 
few trains stopped at it that most people preferred to 
go to Purley. Mr. Bevington, however, had his own 
reasons for wishing to escape observation in this visit 
to Appledore. 

Ruth had felt strangely depressed this morning; 
perhaps the heavy gray sky helped the feeling. She 
went up the lane and stood watching. She could not 
help expecting her lover, and yet her heavy heart 
warned her that he probably would not come. She 
stood at the end of the lane looking toward Purley, 
so that Bevington saw her before she recognized him. 
She had, indeed, turned back toward the farm-house, 
but about half-way she stopped to listen. Footsteps 
were coming quickly down the lane, and she knew 
that they were her lover’s; a kind of panic seized 
her ; her heart began to flutter and she slackened her 
pace. She did not look round till he came up with 
her at the bottom of the lane. 

He looked anxiously into her eyes as he took her 
hand in his. 

‘^Are you not glad to see me, darling?” he said, 
in a reproachful tone. ‘‘I must say turning your 
back on him is not a warm welcome to give a fellow. 
What is the meaning of it — eh, you naughty pet? ” 

Either the seductive charm of his voice or the love 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


151 


in his eyes — who can accurately define the means by 
which love governs? — conquered Ruth’s new reti- 
cence, and she gave him a winning smile. 

He opened the gate for her, and she passed silently 
into the garden, and then into the house. She felt 
just a little shy when he closed the door of the sit- 
ting-room and came toward her. 

“You received my letter? ” she asked. 

He was struck by her formal way of speaking ; yet 
she had not spoken in this way consciously; there 
was a question in his eyes as he looked at her, and 
he hesitated to take her in his arms. She had been 
so different last time, he remembered. 

“Yes,” he said, “I had your letter; but, dear 
child, I cannot agree to your terms. I told you I 
wanted you to come to me at once. Your father, if 
he likes, can join you later ; but I must have you all 
to myself at first.” 

“I could not go to you without telling father 
beforehand.” 

He went up to her, put his arms round her waist, 
and tenderly kissed her. 

“ It is not a question to settle standing face to face, 
as if we were going to quarrel ;” he drew her to the 
sofa and made her sit down beside him ; then, as he 
kissed her yet more fondly, he said, “ I don’t seem to 
know my pet when she looks strong-minded ; I am 
afraid of her.” 

Ruth already felt ashamed of herself, and she 
flushed deeply while he spoke. She nestled her head 
on his shoulder, and they sat for some time in that 
delicious silence which, to some lovers, is far more 


152 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


sympathetic than words can ever he — a silence full 
of deep, mysterious meaning, in which hearts become 
more and more closely united. 

At last he said, as if he were answering her : 

‘‘Yes, it is so entirely our own business that there 
can be no sense in taking another opinion about it. 
You will not mind living in London, will you, dear 
girl? ” 

“ I should like it,” she answered simply, “ but when 
I am with you, dear, one place will be much the same 
as another.” 

The tender thrill in her voice pained him; he 
turned suddenly away from her and walked to the 
window. Her manner puzzled him more than ever, 
and he had laid his plans on the certainty that Ruth 
was, after all, just like any other girl. 

Now, as he looked at her and became more and 
more dominated by her actual presence, he felt that 
no sacrifice could be too great to make for the posses- 
sion of such a glorious and loving creature. 

He stood at the window, trying to free himself 
from the strange power which she exercised over 
him ; while Ruth sat wondering whether she should 
tell him of the newspaper report. There was no truth 
in it; she was sure of that, for he had kissed her 
even more fondly than usual. She felt sure, quite 
sure, he loved her ; but then, if he knew about this 
report, he might contradict it. He was not obliged 
to own his love for her, as he had done ; and this 
proved that he had not altered. It would be better, 
she thought, to tell him about it; and yet, brave as 
she was, Ruth could not get out her words. There 
seemed to her to be something so affronting to her 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


153 


lover in confessing her knowledge of that which was 
not true, and which had no doubt sorely vexed him. 

He turned abruptly from the window. 

When do you expect Mr. Bryant home? ” he said. 

“ In less than a week, I think ; I will write and 
tell you as soon as I know exactly.” 

There was another pause, and then he came and 
again sat down beside her. 

‘‘My Ruth, you must not wait till then; there 
would be fresh delay while you were trying to per- 
suade him to consent, for he is sure to object at first ; 
fathers always do. You will not be cruel enough 
to keep me waiting for you so long, my precious girl ; 
you will come to me to-morrow.” 

He kissed her so passionately that she could not at 
first answer him. She was glad of this delay, for it 
was terribly painful to have to repeat her refusal. 
She loved him very dearly; she would make any 
sacrifice for him, but she would not do that which 
was wrong and also cruel; for she knew it would 
break her father’s heart if he came home and found 
that she had deserted him. It has been already said 
that Ruth was not romantic. In spite of her almost 
quixotic unselfishness, she shrank with a sort of hor- 
ror from anything that could not bear the light of 
day. The secret had been a far sorer trial to her 
honest nature than her lover guessed at, but to leave 
home in secret would be, she thought, thoroughly 
disreputable; and no future happiness could ever 
wipe such a shadow from her name. Even for her 
lover’s sake she could not consent. 

She looked sadly at him. 

“You are blinded now,” she said, “but if I were 


154 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


to do what you ask you would afterward be sorry ; 
you would not respect me, because I should have 
done something I knew to be wrong.” 

Once more he was strangely puzzled as he looked 
at her. He wondered how she had understood his 
letter. It seemed to him she was not thinking of 
marriage with him, and yet he hesitated ; he did not 
know what next to say. One little false step might 
destroy all the progress he hoped he had made. 

She glanced quickly at him, for his continued si- 
lence surprised her. She feared her refusal had made 
him unhappy; yes, he was looking very sad. She 
smiled up at him. 

“ Even if I were to do as you wish,” she said shyty, 
“ I hardly think any nice clergyman would marry us 
without asking questions; and we could not say, 
either of us, that our parents had consented to our 
marriage.” 

He frowned at this and bit his lip, he was so 
utterly disappointed. 

“ I hate parsons, and I never have anything to do 
with them that can be done without them. We can 
be joined together just as well at a registry office as 
by a parson. There, little one ! are you contented? ” 
He was kissing her again, in a passionate way that 
alarmed her ; he had never been like this before, and 
it made her timid of contradicting him, lest she 
should make him angry. Poor dear fellow ! There 
was every excuse, she told herself ; he loved her so 
much that he wished to marry her as soon as possible. 
But for all that, Ruth did not believe in a marriage 
unless it was celebrated in church ; she said this to 
him. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


155 


He held her a little away from him and shook his 
head. 

“ I could not have believed that you were such a 
dreadful little Philistine,” he said petulantly. “ What 
possible difference can it make how we are joined 
together? If you are pining after a wedding with 
favors and orange blossoms, and that sort of bosh, I 
can only say you have mistaken your man. I could 
not submit to such a performance. Besides, as our 
marriage is to be kept perfectly private, the other 
way is the only safe one. Parsons will gossip like 
washerwomen, if you give them the ghost of a 
chance.” He bent down and kissed her blushing 
cheek. There ! there ! Never mind what I said ! I 
got cross over the parson. Listen, darling ! this is 
what I want you to do : meet me at the place I named 
as early as you can to-morrow. We will go to Lon- 
don from one of the small stations, and I promise to 
bring you safe home again before your father sets 
foot in Appledore. You shall tell him what we have 
done as soon as I give you leave. Just now I have 
a special reason for asking you to be silent.” 

He looked away as he ended. 

Ruth’s heart gave a great jump, and then the power 
which had kept her silent seemed all at once to leave 
her free to speak. She heard the clang of the house- 
place door, and she knew that Sally Voce had come 
back from her visit to Little Marshfield. How long 
he must have been with her ! She must send him 
away. Instead of answering his proposal she said 
quietly, without a shade of doubt in her tone, Did 
you see that notice in the paper that you were going 
to marry Miss Stretton? ” 


156 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


“ Confound the fools ! Who has told you such 
cursed folly? ” He had reddened to his hair, and as 
she looked at him he tried to avoid her eyes. 

Ruth sat still and stiff ; then she drew herself away 
from him and rose from the sofa. She had no sense 
of any feeling except that of stinging shame. 

After a little she said slowly, ‘‘ I had not believed 
it ; I did not mean to speak of it ; I thought it was 
idle gossip. Reggy,” she said, bursting from the 
stupor that had seized her, and clasping her hands in 
a passionate appeal that distracted him, ‘Hell me 
yourself! say it is a falsehood, and I will believe 
you ! ” 

He stood silent; her passion had quieted his anger; 
he thought it showed the strength of her love; he 
believed that this revelation might after all help him ; 
her feelings would be stronger than her prudence. 
He looked at her without a trace of compunction as 
if he accepted the situation. 

“It is true,” he said. “I had not quite made up 
my mind to marry this lady. Even if I had, she 
could never be to me what you are. You will be my 
real wife, my sweetest Ruth, let me marry whom I 
will.” 

Her lips parted with the sudden horror she felt ; 
but the rest of her face was set like stone. She held 
up her hand in warning, for she heard approaching 
footsteps. 

“I will say good-by to you, Mr. Bevington,” she 
said very slowly, and in a cold, expressionless voice. 
“ I must ask you not to repeat your visit ; I do not 
wish to see any visitor during my father’s absence.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


The weather suddenly changed ; the gray lowering 
sky had as suddenly lifted. A far-off blue, powdered 
here and there with filmy white vapor that seemed 
to promise heat, had taken the place of those heavy, 
brooding clouds. As Ruth stood at the gate waiting 
for her father, she had to shade her eyes with her 
hand from the glare of the sunshine ; it was so brill- 
iant. 

Ruth felt very strange. She had not come to her- 
self since she parted from Mr. Bevington ; and just 
as the body faints when some sudden shock arrests 
the course of the blood and jars the nerves, so in like 
manner the mind, when over-tried, will sometimes 
wander from the guidance to which it has been ac- 
customed to submit itself and its powers. Ruth 
was at war with herself and with every one. Faith 
and hope were alike wrecked, and love seemed to her 
a mere mocking mask, hiding base intentions. 
Feeling was dead in her, except the one feeling of 
dread — a dread of herself and of what she might be 
tempted to do ; and with this dread was an almost 
fierce longing for protection. 

Ruth’s life had been so quiet and retired that she 
had lived in ignorance, as so many of her sisters do, 
of the strength of her own feelings ; till this sudden 
157 


158 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


.wrench had aroused them into active struggle she 
hardly knew she had them. 

For the time she had become callous. She sent off 
a messenger to her father, asking him to come back 
to her and telling him she could not any longer do 
without him. She now stood watching the carriage 
that was bringing him home as it drove slowly down 
the lane. She had not made any plan as to what she 
should say to her father. Her mind was still too 
much disordered for coherent thought. She could 
act, but she did not even try to think ; and it may be 
that unconsciously she longed for her father’s pres- 
ence as much for the abstraction from self, which 
the very sight of him must bring, as from a real 
belief in his power to protect her. 

Philip Bryant looked fondly at his daughter as he 
was helped out of the carriage and then into the sit- 
ting-room. He was evidently stronger, and Mrs. 
Voce asserted as she helped him that “he did not 
lean so heavy by one-half as he did afore he left.” 

Bryant smiled, but he did not talk to Sally; he 
seemed anxious to find himself alone with his 
daughter. 

“Well, my lass,” he said when Sally at last de- 
parted, “you’ve had a dull time, I’m thinking. It 
would put new life in you, child, if you could have 
such a visit as I’ve had. Miss Clifford has been as 
kind and as pleasant as if I were an old friend, tak- 
ing such care of me as would make you smile ; it did 
me sometimes. As to Michael — well, there! I’d best 
not speak about him, lest I should make a baby of 
myself.” 

“I am so glad, dear!” — she bent over him and 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


159 


kissed him ; she felt such comfort in his presence — 

so very glad ! ” she murmured, as she placed herself 
beside him. 

“Yes, I wish you could have been there too. I 
had no notion that Michael was so looked up to and 
respected. Why, only yesterday there was my Lord 
Boscobel rode in to see him, a matter of ten miles or 
so ; and I saw that he shook hands both with Michael 
and with Miss Clifford as if he thought much of 
them. And not only that, there’s the archdeacon 
and all the people about take notice of them. It’s a 
wonder and a pleasure, too, to see how he’s looked 
up to.” 

“I am very glad,” Ruth said. Her father’s news 
seemed to justify the strong trust she had always 
had in Michael Clifford. “ His sister must be very 
proud of him,” she added. 

Philip Bryant sighed and looked wistfully at his 
daughter. 

“ Yes, poor soul ! ” He sighed again. “ I am sorry 
for Miss Clifford. Not for her invalid state; she 
makes a joke of that; she has such lively spirits. 
We had many a hearty laugh together, I can tell 
you. She has a rare way of seeing through her 
neighbors, though no one would suspect it of her.” 

“Why do you say you are sorry for her?” Ruth 
asked. 

“Well, my girl, you have something to do with 
that, I fancy. Miss Clifford loves her brother dearly. 
There’s another brother in Scotland, it seems; but 
he’s nothing to her, she says, compared with this 
one; and yet the poor soul told me she could not 
make Michael happy.” 


160 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


Ruth listened with a heart-sick consciousness of 
the meaning of his words. It seemed to her that 
Fate stood behind her, driving her on with an iron 
rod to an inevitable future. 

Miss Clifford seems to have got very confidential 
with you. Why can she not make her brother 
happy? ” 

“ Well, no; she was not very friendly at first. She 
was very polite, but stiff, I fancied ; and I felt shy. 
I thought she was perhaps angry that her brother 
had done so much for me ; and then, whether Michael 
saw it and spoke to her, or what happened, I cannot 
say; but she altered all at once, and we had long 
talks together.” 

He paused and seemed to hesitate, but Ruth sat 
silent. It seemed to her that she knew what his next 
words would be, and that she had better hear them. 
Her father looked away from her when he spoke 
again. 

“ Miss Clifford told me that her brother cannot be 
happy without you, Ruth. She said she had hoped 
he would get over his love, and she gave that as a 
reason why she has avoided making your acquaint- 
ance; but she has now come to a decision. If you 
will listen to Michael she will go to Scotland and live 
with her brother David, who has lost his wife, it 
appears, and has two motherless girls.” 

There was a pause ; then she said ; 

“ And what did you say, father? ” 

Her voice sounded so weary that he turned to look 
at her ; she was very pale, and there was a restless 
expression in her eyes which struck him as unusual. 

I repeated what you told me, child, the last time 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


161 


we spoke on this subject. I said you did not wish 
to marry; but I could not help saying, too, on my 
own account — you see, she has been so good to me, 
Ruth — that I love Michael dearly, and that I hope 
and trust you and he may one day come together. I 
said to her, ‘ I have not long to live, and it would 
greatly help me when my time comes to know that 
my girl is safe with such a man as Michael Clifford. ’ ” 

“ Did you say that to Mr. Clifford as well as to his 
sister? ” 

He thought she spoke defiantly, and his voice was 
sad as he answered, “ No, my girl, I had not forgotten 
a hint you gave me about some one else.” He gave 
her a yearning, wistful look, as if to entreat her to 
spare him this disappointment of his hopes. “ Eh, 
Ruth? ” he said tenderly. 

The girl rose abruptly and walked up and down 
the room ; her face was wrung with pain. At last, 
with bent head and flushed cheeks, she stood still in 
front of her father. 

“Would you be really happy, dear, if I were to 
say I will marry Mr. Clifford? ” 

His eyes glistened as he looked at her ; there were 
tears in them as he answered : 

“More happy than words can tell, my darling; 
because I should feel your own happiness was safe. 
I should not have a sorrow or a care. But I fancied 
there was some one in the way.” 

She moved her head restlessly, as if his answer 
was beside the question; and then she said slowly 
and without raising her eyes : 

“You are mistaken; but look here, father! I can- 
not force myself. I have no love to give Mr. Clifford ; 

n 


162 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


and you must tell him so. If he likes to take me 
for his wife on those terms I will marry him. But 
understand, father” — she spoke so harshly that he 
stared at her in some alarm, and the intense gaze he 
met was not reassuring — “understand,” she re- 
peated, “ you and Mr. Clifford must arrange it be- 
tween you; I can’t have any love scene, or nonsense 
of that kind.” 

Philip Bryant’s sudden joy was crushed, and yet 
he did not venture to remonstrate, lest she should 
withdraw this very unexpected consent to his wishes. 

“Time will alter her,” he thought; “I will do the 
best I can,” he said. “Won’t you kiss me, darling, 
and let me thank you for your goodness? ” 

She bent down and let him kiss her ; but she was 
glad to make an excuse to leave him. 

“You are tired,” she said, “and you need rest. I 
will not let you talk any more till you have had 
a nap.” 

She arranged his cushions and told Sally not to 
disturb him, and then went into the garden and be- 
gan to tie the crocus grass together with a sort of 
feverish haste, as if her days were numbered. She 
soon gave up her employment, however; her head 
ached and her mouth was parched. She wanted a 
refuge from thought, and this monotonous use of her 
fingers encouraged its presence. She went resolutely 
back to the house. It seemed to her that a list ought 
to be made of the furniture and of her father’s pos- 
sessions before he left Appledore. She could not 
bring her mind in its confused state to grasp any- 
thing clearly, but she clung to any occupation that pre- 
sented itself^ as a shelter from the consideration of 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


163 


the promise she had made. She did not hope to free 
herself from this marriage; nothing mattered now, 
she thought ; all that had made life dear had suddenly 
died. Ruth felt as if her youth had died with the 
loss of her faith in her lover; it could not matter 
now what became of her. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


It was a relief to Ruth when Mrs. Voce told her 
that she had sent for her daughter-in-law and for 
little George to occupy her empty cottage and keep 
it aired in her absence. 

Lucy would ‘‘take it very kind,” she said, if Miss 
Bryant would go and see her. 

Ruth felt sure that Michael Clifford would come 
over to inquire for her father, and she determined 
that she would not be at home. 

Her father was sitting in the porch smoking when 
she went out. 

“ I am going to see poor Lucy Voce,” she said, as 
she passed him. 

Bryant looked uneasy. 

“ If Michael Clifford comes over, what am I to say 
to him? ” He hesitated as he spoke. “ It would be 
much better for you to meet. I could let him know 
that you will listen to him.” 

“ I will keep my promise, father ; you need not fear 
that I shall go back from it ; but I ask you to spare 
me any kind of a scene with Mr. Clifford.” 

“Suppose he says he must see you?” Bryant’s 
voice sounded fretful. 

Ruth looked at him frankly and tried to smile. 

“You see, father,” she said, “I am not quite what 
you think me ; I am not a saint, only a very imper- 
fect woman, and I must have my own way on some 
164 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


165 


points. If you insist on my seeing Michael Clifford 
I shall probably affront him by my coldness. If he 
writes to me I will answer his letter ; that seems the 
easiest way ; only it must be clearly understood that 
I do not love him, and that he is not at present to 
expect me to do so.” 

Philip Bryant sighed at the hard task that lay 
before him. He thought, as he watched the girl’s 
firm, graceful walk up the lane, how much pleasanter 
and easier this matter would be if she would look at 
it from his point of view. She evidently did not 
care for any one else, as he had feared she did, or 
she could not so quickly have promised to marry 
Clifford. It would be in every way so much better 
if she would stay at home this afternoon and let 
things take their natural course, and give the poor 
chap a chance of winning her. The afternoon grew 
warmer, and Sally Voce came out and suggested that 
Mr. Bryant should go in-doors. He was still unable 
to use his foot, but he could move easily now with 
the help of a crutch and Sally’s strong arm; and she 
had placed him comfortably in his easy-chair some 
time before Mr. Clifford’s arrival. 

Sally had been on the lookout for him. Both 
father and daughter had been very silent, and the 
shrewd old woman had felt that . something unusual 
had been discussed between them. At first she fan- 
cied that this related to Mr. Bevington’s visits, but 
when she overheard Ruth’s parting words as she left 
her father, Sally’s long-cherished hope about Mr. 
Clifford took fresh life. She became excited as she 
saw him tying up his horse at the gate, and welcomed 
him with a beaming smile as she threw the door 


166 


APPLEDORE FAR3L 


open to its widest extent and ushered him into the 
sitting-room. 

It would be difficult to say which of the men felt 
the more nervous as they shook hands. Philip Bry- 
ant’s keen perception taught him that Clifford would 
be unwilling to accept a wife on the terms which 
Ruth had proposed, and yet he dared not say more 
than she had authorized him to say. He began by 
asking after Miss Clifford. 

Michael smiled as he answered ; this question had 
smoothed the way for what he wanted to say. 

Dorothy is all right, thank you. I am to give 
you a message from her. You were kind enough to 
say you should be glad to see her at Appledore, and 
I was to tell you that she will much enjoy coming 
over, whenever Miss Bryant likes to see her.” 

Bryant felt uncomfortable. In the intense interest 
and relief of the other subject he had forgotten to 
speak of a meeting between Ruth and Miss Clifford ; 
but he soon recovered himself. If Ruth was willing 
to marry the brother, she had, of course, no objection 
to make acquaintance with the sister. 

“I will get Ruth to write,” he said, and then he 
paused, wondering how he should frame his pro- 
posal. 

“ Is Miss Bryant at home? ” Clifford asked. 

“Well, no; she has gone to Little Marshfield. 
Rather a hot walk to-day ! ” 

“There is a storm in the air,” Clifford said. “I 
fancy we are going to have quite a lot of rain.” 

Another pause, in which Bryant’s perplexity so 
greatly increased that he felt tongue-tied. At last 
he said : 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


167 


It appears that your sister is willing that — that — 
I mean in regard to your wishes about Ruth.” 

‘^She told you so, did she?” His eyes sparkled 
with joyful surprise, and Bryant at once understood 
that her brother was not entirely in Dorothy’s confi- 
dence. He cleared his throat with a feeling of relief. 

‘‘ Yes, Miss Clifford was very frank. 1 fancy she 
could not bear to give you up, but she said she wanted 
you to be happy your own way, and she hoped you 
would marry Ruth, because she knew you wished it.” 

“My wish is only half the battle,” said Clifford 
slowly. 

“ My good fellow, do you expect a woman to fall 
into your mouth before you have even told her you 
care about her — much less asked her to have you? ” 

Love is blind, but it is also very sensitive; and 
something in the farmer’s tone stirred Michael. 

“What do you mean?” he said abruptly; but 
Bryant saw how his eyes sparkled. “ Can you give 
me a hope that your daughter will listen to me? 
Are you sure that she does not care for some one 
else? ” 

“ I am sur^of that, my boy ; I have found that out 
for you. Last time I spoke to you I was still in 
doubt myself ; now I am clear about it. If you ask 
her to be your wife, I am pretty sure she will have 
you.” 

Clifford passed his hands over his eyes; he felt 
dazzled by this sudden prospect of happiness. He 
felt, too, that he must know his fate at once. 

“ I should probably meet her if I walked on to 
Little Marshfield? ” he said eagerly. 

“I am not sure; she might go round by Watling 


168 


APPLEDOEE FAEM. 


Street; she visits a poor woman who lives in the 
muddy lane they call by that grand name. If she 
does come that way, ten to one you would miss her. 
I say, old chap! why do you try to see her? Why 
don’t you write? If you take my advice you’ll write. 
Ruth is so uncommon shy, you know.” 

Michael Clifford sat thinking. 

“I could certainly write,” he said, after a pause, 
“though I should prefer to speak. If I come to- 
morrow, I might find her at home. No, by the by, 
I cannot come to-morrow.” 

Bryant put his hand on his friend’s shoulder, look- 
ing very much in earnest. 

“Look you here, Michael! don’t let there be any 
delay. I have done my best for you, and I say strike 
while the iron is hot ; and I have another reason : I 
want the matter settled. I want to feel that Ruth is 
safe in your care; and then, old fellow, I shall be 
ready when my summons comes. It won’t be long, 
first, you may make sure of that.” 

Michael was silent. Into the midst of his bewil- 
dering joy came the doubt : was Ruth willing to do 
this only from worldly motives? A^d then he re- 
membered her frank, noble nature, and he felt he 
had wronged her. He could not, however, believe 
that he had won her love, though he thought it pos- 
sible he might have betrayed his own. 

“You have been very frank with me, old friend,” 
he said, “ and I will be equally frank. You are over- 
anxious about yourself. I hope and believe we shall 
keep you with us many years. Well, then, I should 
like to be less hurried ; I should like to try and win 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


169 


my precious girl’s love little by little. I know how 
undeserving I am of it.” 

Bryant looked very grave ; he had seen that this 
was the very thing from which Ruth shrank, and 
yet if he said so he might enlist Michael’s pride 
against the suddenness of the engagement. He 
shook his head as he answered : 

‘^I’m sorry, but it can’t be. I couldn’t stand it, 
man. I want it settled off-hand. Do you suppose I 
could have lived all these years with such a daughter 
as Ruth has been without knowing beforehand what 
the wrench will be of giving her up, even to such a 
husband as I know you will make her? No, Michael ; 
either wait till I’m out of the way, or else take her 
with as little delay as possible. If I had my way I 
should wish the wedding fixed in a fortnight or so.” 

Clifford stared at him. The man’s eagerness and 
the flush of excitement on his drawn face showed 
how deeply he was in earnest. 

‘‘That must rest with Miss Bryant,” Clifford said. 
“ Whatever you and she may determine will satisfy 
me.” He paused, and a genial, happy smile over- 
spread his face. “ I can’t believe in it yet; it seems 
too good, much too good to be true.” 

And as he rode back to Burley Michael’s heart 
seemed to brim over with his thankfulness for the 
great joy that had so unexpectedly come into his life. 
It was not yet quite sure — he knew that — that this 
ardent, long-cherished wish would be gratified ; but 
he could not think so hardly of Philip Bryant as to 
believe that he would mislead him about Ruth’s con- 
sent. He was almost sure that she did not yet love 


170 


APPLEDOBE FABM. 


him; but then, he argued, a modest girl was not 
likely to know her own mind about a man who had 
hidden his feelings as he’d tried to hide his. She 
might, perhaps, have guessed his attachment; but 
Michael was old-fashioned enough to be high-toned 
about women, and he thought it was only due to 
Ruth that she should have a fit amount of courting 
before she could be expected to say she cared for 
him. Bryant’s wish for a hurried marriage had 
seemed quite out of keeping with the reverent, wor- 
shipping character of the younger man’s love. 

Before he reached Burley, Michael began to think 
differently ; he resolved that no time should be lost. 
It seemed to him that till now Ruth had been out of 
reach, barred away from him by the distance which 
he felt between them. So beautiful a woman, if she 
only could be seen by other men, would, he thought, 
attract a crowd of admirers; and her refinement 
would enable her to adapt herself to any station. 
Why, then, should he run the risk of losing her? 
Why should he hesitate when such a heaven of hap- 
piness was put within his reach? 

‘‘ It is a mere question of vanity that makes me 
hesitate,” he said to himself, as he reached the end of 
the long, dry high-road and saw the tall tower of Bur- 
ley Church on the top of the height before him. “ I 
want to be married for myself, and I am afraid this 
dear girl is only willing to take me for her father’s 
sake, and wants to give him peace of mind respect- 
ing her. Well, I must take my chance. I have to 
make Ruth love me, and surely her love is worth all 
the trouble I may find in winning it.” 

He set his face resolutely, and dismissed the doubt 


APPLEDOEE FARM, 


171 


which his sister’s news had created ; he would stake 
his life on his darling’s truth. If she had cared for 
any one else she would not have consented to her 
father’s wishes. 

He rode up the steep ascent at a quicker pace than 
usual, impatient to write the letter that was to decide 
his fate ; and when he reached the old house in Broad 
Street he went direct to his study, although he longed 
to share his news with Dorothy. Perhaps a remem- 
brance of their last talk about his love had something 
to do with his decision. 

He wrote his letter ; he pleaded his love as he felt 
it, strongly and simply. He told Ruth how long 
and hopeless it had been. He did not speak of her 
father’s encouragement; he only said that he could 
no longer bear this uncertainty, and that unless she 
could give him a hope of winning her he must avoid 
the chance of seeing her. In reference to the haste 
enjoined by Mr. Bryant, he said that if she was good 
enough to listen to him he thought, for her father’s 
sake, that a long engagement should be avoided, as 
Mr. Bryant was anxious to avoid delay. 

He went out and posted his letter ; but he could 
not at once go in and tell Dorothy. He felt strangely 
excited, and he walked rapidly away from the broad 
street and then across the market-place, till he reached 
the massive gray walls that surround Purley Castle. 

He did not go in through the frowning, low-browed 
entrance gate, but, turning to the left, took his way 
outside the walls, and then through a couple of arched 
openings, till he paused on the top of the wooded hill 
from which the castle rises. There was a wooden 
bench here, just outside the dark gray wall of what 


172 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


may have been in the old days some fair lady’s bower ; 
and seating himself he rested his back against the 
rough stone- work, while far below him, between the 
trunks of the stately elms that clothed the hill and 
almost hid the old gray towers from curious eyes, he 
could see the lovely river, winding its way between 
the slender birches that bent across it from either 
side, or foaming over the weir of the fulling-mill on 
the opposite bank. 

Was it really true? he asked himself; and in a 
few weeks should he be sitting here with Ruth, his 
own dear wife, beside him? It was an almost bewil- 
dering joy to look forward to, and yet he still could 
not help wishing that it might be delayed a little. 
He pictured to himself the delight of watching the 
growth of Ruth’s love. He knew she would be reti- 
cent at first; the very strength of her character 
warned him that she could not be otherwise. It 
seemed a robbery to both of them that this sweet 
wooing-time should be swept out of their lives. All 
at once he remembered Appledore and the new ten- 
ant with whom he had been in treaty, and who was 
ready to take possession as soon as the Bryants had 
left the farm. Yes, he must give up this wished- 
for sweetness, for Ruth’s sake as well as for her 
father’s ; it would be best to avoid delay. Michael 
expected as a matter of course that Bryant would 
share his daughter’s home, and he fancied that the 
relief which the marriage would bring to his friend’s 
anxiety might soften the pain of leaving the house 
in which he had been born and in which all his life 
had been spent. 

Michael Clifford was always happier when he could 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


173 


find that the source of his own satisfaction was not 
wholly selfish. He rose up and went home to Doro- 
thy. 

He seated himself by her sofa and asked if she 
had had any visitors in his absence. 

She kept her eyes intently fixed on his face as she 
answered : 

“No, I have not seen any one; I have been think- 
ing — thinking very hard, Michael.” Then, with a 
sharp change of tone, “ How did you find Mr. Bryant, 
and what has he been saying to you? ” 

Her brother started. 

“I often say you are a witch, little one,” he said 
tenderly ; “ you have such a faculty for guessing one’s 
thoughts. I wonder” — he bent down and kissed her 
— “whether you know how full of gratitude I feel 
toward you for what you told Mr. Bryant? ” 

The flush of pleasure that had come with the sight 
of her brother suddenly faded, and left her paler 
than usual. 

“ I told Mr. Bryant a good many things,” she said 
coldly ; “ but I know what you mean, Michael. ” She 
raised herself and sat upright. “ Have you come to 
tell me you have proposed to Miss Bryant? ” 

“Yes, I have written to her; she was out while I 
was at Appledore.” 

“ Ah ! ” She looked keenly at him, and then she 
put her tiny hand on his arm. “You poor dear 
fellow! I do hope you will be happy, but I can’t 
help fearing.” 

He drew his arm roughly away and rose. That 
extraordinary spirit of contradiction which seems to 
possess a man at any mention of the woman he loves 


174 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


had seized on Clifford. He stood very erect in front 
of his sister, ready to disagree with her next re- 
mark. 

“ I fancy your fear is quite unnecessary, Dorothy.” 

Her eyelashes quivered with the keen pain she felt. 
Ruth Bryant had then come already between them. 
She could not remember that Michael had ever before 
spoken to her in such a tone. She was inclined to 
keep silence, lest she should make him still more 
angry; and then that longing to do her duty hy 
speaking out, a longing to which so many good 
women yield, and thereby stir up needless strife, 
overcame Dorothy’s discretion. 

‘‘I hope so,” she said; ‘‘but think for a moment 
what it would be for you to find yourself married to 
a girl who does not love you. ” 

It was probably the presence of his own fear, the 
fear he had thought cast out, that made Michael feel 
suddenly beside himself with anger. 

“We had better not discuss this subject,” he said, 
“ I used to think you were superior to other women, 
Dorothy, but I see women are all alike, hard-judging 
and prejudiced.” 

He turned away and left her, without even a glance 
at her imploring face. 

Poor Dorothy hid her eyes in her little liands. 

“ Yes, I am all he says, but it is so hard to hear 
him say it,” she thought, while tears trickled slowly 
between her fingers; “and I am a fool besides; I 
ought to know by this time that men are not quite 
the same when they are in love.” 

She sat thinking ; suppose when she saw Ruth and 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


175 


her brother together the girl’s manner should confirm 
her fear? What could she do? She could do nothing 
to help Michael, for she knew that his infatuation 
would increase with every fresh meeting with his 
fiancee. She clasped her hands together in a kind of 
hopeless despair. She had spoken of her brother’s love 
to Mr. Bryant because she hoped to find out that Ruth 
really cared for Michael, but Mr. Bryant’s uneasy 
manner, and his silence just when he should have 
spoken, soon told this keen observer that he was as 
anxious on this point as she was ; and it seemed impos- 
sible to the devoted sister that any one could know her 
brother as well as this girl knew him and yet remain 
insensible to him. Dorothy had felt confirmed in 
the opinion that Mrs. Buchan’s story was true, and 
that Ruth Bryant had loved her father’s pupil. It 
was quite natural. Miss Clifford thought, now that 
every one knew of Mr.Bevington’s intended marriage, 
that Miss Bryant should be willing to marry the first 
man who asked her ; but oh ! that it had been any other 
man than Michael! Surely every one must admit 
that he deserved the first and best love that a good 
woman could give him ; and although Dorothy tried 
hard not to be prejudiced, she could not bring herself 
to admit that a girl who met her lover secretly in the 
Mill Glen was quite good, or even nice. Why had 
she herself been so weak and foolish as to tell Mr. 
Bryant that she wished Michael to marry his daugh- 
ter? Her feelings suddenly changed. “I am grow- 
ing horrid,” she said, ‘^full of nasty prejudice; if I 
stay here I may perhaps spoil Michael’s happiness. 
I will leave him in peace ; I will write at once and 


176 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


announce my coming to David ; he will not spoil me, 
and he will find me plenty to do. I have been spoiled 
by my darling Michael, and in return I have wounded 
him just where he feels it most keenly; but I will 
make it straight with him before I go away.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


Michael’s letter, written so fervently and showing 
how entirely his happiness hung in doubt till it was 
favorably answered, gave Ruth a feeling of nausea. 
She had gone up to her room to read it, for she knew 
it would contain this declaration, and now she stood 
leaning back against the dark-panelled wall of her 
bedroom, her clasped hands pressed on her lips. 

I cannot do it,” she said to herself; “ I cannot — I 
ought not to have promised.” 

She felt too weak and wretched to argue with her- 
self. Going quickly downstairs she found Mrs. Voce 
clamoring for help. Bird had been making a final 
clearance of the raspberry harvest, and had also 
brought in a huge basketful of shining red currants. 
Sally was spreading the bright, downy raspberries 
out on cool-looking, blue-green cabbage-leaves. Her 
face almost matched the color of the fruit ; excitement 
had given it a purple tinge. 

Drat the man ! Much as I can do,” she muttered 
irritably, “to get the sugar crushed an’ the fruit 
boiled; betime it’s stripped an’ ready ’twill be din- 
ner-hour. If a man be not a crab, he’s safe to be a 
meddler.” 

Ruth went swiftly into the house-place and took 
her work-apron out of a cupboard beside the chimney- 
13 177 


178 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


piece ; she was soon back in the kitchen, deftly strip- 
ping the glassy scarlet currant berries from their 
slender, tender green stalks into a huge yellow-lined 
dish which Sally had meantime placed ready for her. 
Possibly Sally’s company was a help, though at the 
time the girl did not appreciate it ; she would rather 
have been left in peace ; but the running string of 
talk in which Mrs. Voce relieved her own mind and 
damaged the reputation of her neighbors prevented 
her young mistress from dwelling on her trouble. 
As the heap of fruit gradually became smaller Sally’s 
tone sweetened and her face resumed its usual 
serenity. 

Thank you, miss,” she said graciously, as Ruth 
strung the last few bunches. ‘‘I will say o’ you. 
Miss Bryant, what can’t be said of many another — 
you doesn’t offer, you does. I shall get that there 
jam done first-rate; no thanks to Bird, all the same, 
for not taking me into counsel beforehand. My 
word, the men is all on the same pattern — don’t ye 
find it so, miss? — fro’ little George uppards; they 
acts on their own idees a deal more than’s needful, 
so to say.” 

“You have spoiled George, Sally; it seems to me 
he must have been masterful before he was short- 
coated. He’s worse than ever since he’s had that 
sailor suit I saw him in last Sunday.” 

“Don’t he look winsome in it, miss? But that 
were no doin’ o’ mine ; no. Miss Bryant, ’twere Mr. 
Clifford gived it me for him, just because I chanced 
to say as you fancied the little lad.” 

Ruth turned away ; she seemed to be hemmed in 
by this one subject. Her common sense, however, 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


m 


had returned ; she had made a mistake in calculating 
her mental strength and she must suffer, but she told 
herself she had made this offer to her father and she 
was bound to act up to it. Michael Clifford must 
have received some encouragement from her father 
or he would not have written to her. Well, then, 
she had no right to disappoint him and fling his 
hopes back in his face. 

She went into the sitting-room. She could not 
write to accept Clifford as her husband from her 
own little desk upstairs on which she had written 
such tender letters to Reginald Bevington, and in 
which she still kept those he had sent her. It was 
the first time since his visit to Appledore that she 
had allowed herself to see him, as it were, full length. 
Hitherto, at the first thought of him she had turned 
away to something likely to blot out the pain of that 
woful memory ; now, with a consciousness that this 
was her last opportunity, that in future she must put 
away from her every thought of that past so exquis- 
itely dear — although she felt it had never truly been 
that which she fondly fancied — she sat leaning back 
musing over that first avowal of their love under the 
branching apple-trees, and then the happy meeting 
in the glen. Her lover had meant truly by her in 
those early days. Oh, yes ! she was sure of it. She 
was yielding to her father’s influence, and consenting 
to marry a man whom it seemed to her she could not 
love ; why, then, should she blame Reginald Beving. 
ton for having obeyed his parents’ wishes with 
regard to Miss Stretton? She forgave him the 
wrong he seemed to have meditated against herself, 
partly from her generous nature, partly because she 


180 


APPLEDOUE FARM. 


could not be certain that he would have so deceived 
her, and more than either of these two reasons, be- 
cause she felt that she was going to do him such a 
wrong in bestowing herself on another man. 

Suddenly the window was darkened in front of 
which the writing-table stood, and she saw her father 
looking in at her. He smiled at her and passed on, his 
crutches crunching into the gravel with so rasping a 
sound that Ruth felt a little ashamed of her self-absorp- 
tion, for she had not noticed his approach. She took up 
her pen, and after a few minutes’ thought she began 
her answer. It was lamentably stiff and formal, but 
the girl felt sure that Michael Clifford understood 
her well enough to know that she did not love him. 
She sighed next minute. “ Poor fellow ! ” she 
thought, “ perhaps he does not know as much about 
love as I do.” 

She left her letter in the hall, so that her father 
might see she had written ; she could not bring her- 
self to tell him in so many words that she had 
accepted Michael Clifford’s offer. Bryant seemed 
greatly depressed when he came in, and when he 
was alone with his daughter after supper the evening 
passed almost in silence. Ruth rose at the usual 
time to siunmon Sally to help her father to his room, 
but he stopped her. 

“Stay, child,” he said, “I have a word to say be- 
fore we part to-night. I have first to say thank you 
for being as kind and sensible as I think you have 
been, and next” — he saw she shrank from him, and 
he wanted to fix her attention — “ I — I wanted to give 
you this.” He put an envelope in her hand. “Not 
worth thanks, child,” he said huskily, “only a frac- 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


181 


tion of the sum that should have been yours; it’s 
thirty pounds for your clothes.” 

She looked at him and then at the envelope; she 
could not understand how he came to possess such a 
sum, still less could she understand why he gave it 
to her. 

Before she could utter the question on her lips, her 
father said eagerly, You need not think the money 
came to me from — from any one; it is my own. 

I put it away a long time ago for my funeral ex- 
penses.” 

Ruth burst into sudden tears ; she so seldom cried 
that her father was greatly distressed ; he patted her 
shoulder. 

‘^What is it? What is it, dear heart?” he said 
tenderly ; then seeing that she was drying her eyes 
and trying to hide her agitation, he went on, “ I want 
you to go so far as Purley to-morrow, my lass, and 
get your shopping over ; I want you to spare me all 
the delay you can.” 

cannot go to Purley,” she said cheerfully; 
will get what I want, but I would rather go to some ♦ 
place where I don’t know people.” 

‘^There’s Newbridge,” he said, ‘4f you don’t mind 
going so far. You must take either Sally or Faith 
with you to help carry parcels and so on.” The easily 
pleased man looked radiant with the idea that he 
had planned a pleasant excursion for his darling. 
‘‘You’d best go from Church-Marshfield,” he went 
on when he had said good-night, “then you can 
leave your heavy parcels at the station and get them 
sent out.” 

The weather was so bright next morning that Ruth 


182 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


started on her journey soon after breakfast. She 
took Faith with her instead of Sally Voce; she felt 
that she was not in a humor for the old woman’s 
comments on her purchases and the inquiries to 
which they would give rise. 

They left the station at the foot of the bustling, 
busy High Street of Newbridge, and came up the 
steep hill past the ancient grammar school, now 
turned into the town library, past the flourishing 
hotel with its old sign-board projected over the en- 
trance, while nearly opposite, though standing back 
and partly hidden by a square of its own, was the 
venerable parish church. Along the street were 
plenty of thriving shops, many of them with quaint 
sign-boards, and above these the ancient gabled and 
half-timbered houses ; these became more numerous 
as the street, seemingly tired of its a^ent, began to 
go down hill as steeply as it had mounted, to the 
mo(Jern market-house below. A quaint street of old 
houses crossed it here and led down on the right to 
the river. 

It was Wednesday, market-day at Newbridge, and 
Ruth saw how longingly Faith looked at the people 
as they disappeared from the street into the market- 
house. 

“We will go through,” she said, and Faith looked 
radiant. 

Ruth could not have said why she went in, for she 
had little time to spare, and the crowd within made 
passage slow. On one side were ranged long lines 
of fruit and vegetable stalls, behind which the sellers 
were chiefly women ; on the other side was a groat 
and varied display of poultry and eggs, butter of 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


183 


varied yellows, set off by cool green leaves; while 
here and there was the pale primrose of a cream 
cheese, displayed for a while as a bait to a passer-by, 
and then again carefully shrouded in muslin. Ruth 
smiled and sighed as she looked at the rosy, eager 
faces of the market women, some of them evidently 
farmers’ wives, who had come in to sell their own 
farm products. 

‘‘ I might have earned something for father if I 
had been brought up to do this,” the girl thought; 
“ we only get half price from that shop at Purley, 
compared with what these people are asking; and 
we might sell far more than we do.” 

She sighed again ; it seemed to her that she had 
been brought up above her station in life, and she 
was in fact very useless compared with the girls, 
young women, and matrons, some of whom, nicely 
and neatly dressed, sat behind their chickens and 
their dairy produce. 

It was too late now, she told herself, for regrets ; 
that part of her life was ended ; she should even have 
to give up her favorite employment of gardening. 
She knew, from what Mr. Clifford had told her, that 
there was scarcely any garden to the house in Broad 
Street. 

“Come along,” she said briskly to Faith; and she 
turned to leave the market-house by the way they 
had come. Faith wondered why Miss Bryant sud- 
denly stopped ; looking up at her mistress the maid 
saw that she had turned pale ; Faith thought Miss 
Bryant was going to faint, her paleness was so 
ghastly. She took firm hold of Ruth’s arm and led 
her back to the lower end of the market, which was 


184 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


far less crowded than the entrance had been. There 
was a drinking fountain, and the girl asked if Miss 
Bryant would not like a drink of cold water. “ ’Twas 
the heat what made you faint-like, miss,” she said. 

“I’m all right, thank you,” Ruth said slowl}^; and 
she went up a street that led to the shop she had been 
making for when she turned aside into the market- 
place. She had walked briskly up the hill from the 
station, but now, though she was on the level, her feet 
seemed leaden ; she felt as if she had been stunned 
by a blow, and truly she had received a blow that 
for the time had stupefied her. 

She had seen Reginald Bevington standing just 
within the market ; he was with a tall, fair lady, his 
mother, Ruth believed. The sad, gloomy expression 
on his face had gore to the girl’s heart; but for 
Faith’s prompt action she might possibly have stood 
still till the pair came up to her, for they were mov- 
ing in her direction. 


CHAPTER XX. 


Dorothy had settled to break her journey at Car- 
lisle, and stay a few days with a friend she had there ; 
this halt would be useful in several ways ; it would 
give her brother David time to expect her, it would 
lessen her own fatigue, and it would give her the 
opportunity of seeing her cherished Carlisle friend, 
whom she had once fondly hoped Michael would 
marry. Miss Letitia Vareham had money, and she 
was good and affectionate. Michael had acknowl- 
edged all this, but he had been perverse enough to 
add that Dorothy’s paragon was two years older than 
he was, and he also saw that she was very plain and 
dull. While Dorothy superintended • the packing of 
her boxes, she was sorrowfully thinking over this 
perversity of Michael’s. 

‘^It is strange,” she said; “he is fastidious enough 
in some things, and yet in a matter that surely is of 
the utmost importance to his future happiness he 
seems determined to take everything on trust. I 
begin to think that love not only blinds a man, but 
also takes away his wits.” 

She felt nearly sure that Michael’s offer had been 
accepted by Miss Bryant; he had looked so happy 
when he came in to wish her good-morning, for she 
often breakfasted in her room. He had been troubled 
‘ 185 


186 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


when she said she was so soon leaving him, but he 
had not pressed her to stay ; he felt that it would be 
a trial to her to be put in the second place, and it 
was possible that at first she and Ruth might not 
suit one another. 

‘‘You will come back to us later,” he said, smiling 
as he left her room ; but in truth he was too much 
excited to dwell on the parting, for he had received 
Ruth’s answer to his proposal, and he was going to 
Appledore this afternoon as soon as he could get 
away from business. 

And though Dorothy yearned to spend every hour 
of these last days with her brother, her good sense 
warned her that he and she were far more likely to 
maintain their old tender relations if they kept apart 
as much as possible during the time that was left. 

“I am simply horrid,” she thought. “I pray 
against spitefulness and all its nasty, mean ways, 
and yet directly I see Michael I long to make him 
think less well of the girl. If I could only believe 
she loved him, perhaps I should be better ; and yet 
even then I don’t know that I should feel reconciled. 
Yes, I am horrid, and all my life I have gone on 
fancying that I despised jealous people.” 

She sighed, and decided that whatever pain this 
change of home might bring to her, it was undoubt- 
edly much happier for her brother Michael that she 
should go away. 

It was afternoon before Mr. Clifford could get away 
to Appledore. Everything looked at its best in the 
mellow sunshine; a few fleecy, snow-white clouds 
lay lazily on the blue, as if they were enjoying the 
warmth ; the sky itself was a deeper blue than usual. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


187 


and looked almost hard against the soft whiteness of 
the cloud masses. 

He could scent the honeysuckle from the gate as 
he rode down to it, and a hopeful smile overspread 
his face as he pictured Ruth fastening a spray of the 
flower in his button-hole. He saw Philip Bryant 
sitting in his old place in the porch, and looking 
almost as well as ever. 

He even shouted out in his old hearty way, when 
he saw his visitor, for a boy to come and take Mr. 
Clifford’s horse. 

‘‘Send it round to the stable-man,” he said. “You 
are come to stay the afternoon, aren’t you? 

The suppressed joy in Bryant’s tone added to 
Clifford’s hope. He told himself .that he ought not to 
have been depressed by the stiffness of Ruth’s note; 
he could not expect her to show any warmth of feel- 
ing for him till she became more accustomed to look 
on him as her lover.- It was a crushing disappoint- 
ment to hear that she had gone to ]Sre\\^bridge. 

“ If you had let me know,” he said, “ I would have 
gone in and seen her safe home.” 

Bryant smiled at his impatient tone. 

“She’ll be back soon now,” he said; “don’t you 
bother your head about her. Ruth is well able to 
take care of herself; she has the little maid with 
her to carry her parcels.” 

Clifford looked dissatisfied; he talked for a few 
minutes with his friend, but his thoughts strayed to 
Ruth. At last he gave an answer so completely at 
cross-purposes that Bryant laughed. 

“There! go your ways, man,” he said; “go your 
ways. If you start at once you’re safe to meet her 


188 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


near Clmrch-Marshfield ; she must come by this train ; 
the next one won’t save daylight, long as it stays 
with us now.” 

He looked graver when Clifford had left him to 
walk toward Marshfield, for he suddenly remembered 
that this meeting was the sort of thing against which 
Ruth had protested when she asked him to spare her 
a love-scene with Michael Clifford. 

“I hope she’ll be kind to the poor chap.” But he 
felt nervous for a while ; then he laughed at his own 
scruples. It was only nonsense, he thought, the 
unreal notion of a girl who had never had a lover; 
for though he was fairly confident that Ruth had 
had a fancy for some one while she stayed at her 
aunt’s, she had said that she was free from any en- 
gagement. It was therefore evident that she had 
never had an accepted lover. After all, the hopeful 
man thought, this unexpected meeting might prove 
a useful step in the courtship. 

“Anyway, it gives him no end of a chance,” the 
farmer ended, “if he only knows how to use it; but 
he wants devil, does Michael.” 

Meanwhile Michael was walking as fast as he 
could along the high-road. He longed to feast his 
eyes with the sight of his darling. His? It seemed 
impossible to believe that she had really consented to 
become his wife. He walked at such a rapid pace 
that he was close to the village before he saw her 
coming. 

She did not see him; she walked with her head 
bent forward and her eyes fixed on the ground. 
Faith walked some way behind her with a boy from 
the station carrying the remainder of the parcels 5 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


189 


these two were laughing and chatting merrily, and 
Ruth looked sad by contrast. 

Clifford quickened his pace and soon joined her; 
she smiled faintly as she recognized him, but he 
thought she seemed ill at ease. This, however, was 
only a momentary idea; his excitement took away 
his power of reflection. They stood still a few min- 
utes while he greeted her. Then he said, Will you 
not send your parcels on? We can follow more 
slowly.” 

‘Wery well,” she said in a subdued voice that was 
quite foreign to her bright, saucy manner. He 
thought this dutiful submissiveness was very sweet ; 
but while Ruth was telling Faith and the boy to 
hurry home, and while she stood aside to let them pass, 
Michael was wishing the old manner would come 
back. The saucy, provoking Ruth was the girl who 
had won his love years ago; this quiet, subdued 
young lady was quite another person. He felt piqued 
to try and provoke at any rate a saucy answer. 

have to thank you very much,” he said, ‘^for 
your most kind answer to my hopes. I know,” he 
went on with increasing fervor, for as he looked at 
Ruth and realized the prize he had won his manner 
became more and more earnest, know, and I 
deeply feel, that I am unworthy of you ; but if you 
will let me, dear girl, I think I can make you happy.” 

He paused, but she walked on beside him in silence, 
her eyes fixed on the ground ; she was evidently lis- 
tening to him, and he felt encouraged to go on with 
most unusual eloquence. 

I have loved you for so long, dearest Ruth.” His 
voice had sunk to a low, tender tone that puzzled his 


190 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


companion; she had not guessed at this depth of 
feeling in a business man like Michael Clifford, and 
it troubled her; it seemed a mere mockery of the 
love she knew so well, but at the same time it warned 
her that her life with this husband would be more 
difficult than she had counted on. “It sometimes 
seems as if I could not remember a time when I did 
not love you, Ruth.” 

She felt obliged to make some answer, and she 
murmured that she was grateful to him for his devo- 
tion; she raised her eyes as she said this; met so 
much ardor expressed in his that she instantly looked 
away lest she should betray the shrinking she felt 
from him. 

His mood had changed ; he felt rashly determined 
to find out her feelings toward him. 

“I should have preferred to wait,” he said, “till I 
could have a more decided hope that you — you cared 
for me ; but when I consulted your father he urged 
me not to delay ; he seemed to think I had lost time 
already. I know this sounds cowardly, as if I were 
trying to shelter myself; well, dear girl,” he weAt 
on, a passion of tenderness in his voice, “ I own 
that I am a coward about vexing or thwarting you. 
Your kind answer was a great relief, for it showed 
me that I had not vexed you. I have told my dear 
old friend that I leave you to settle the length of our 
engagement” (he paused, but she listened quietly, 
without raising her eyes) ; “ I think you will agree 
with me that it will be better if possible so to arrange 
that your father will only have one removal ; I mean 
had he not better go straight from Appledore to Broad 
Street? ” 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


101 


She looked up quickly. 

“ How about your sister? ” 

Her calm, matter-of-fact tone chilled him. 

‘^My sister leaves me on Thursday for Scotland,” 
he said ; she is only happy when she is useful, and 
she can be very useful to my brother David’s chil- 
dren ; he has lost his wife. I was to say from Dorothy 
that she regrets being unable to make your acquaint- 
ance, but there was no help for it.” 

Ruth was slowly growing desperate. That glimpse 
at Reginald Bevington’s sad, and, as she thought, 
repentant face, had shown her how passionately she 
still loved him, and had suddenly opened her eyes to 
the reality of what she was doing and had promised 
to do. She must free herself from this danger. How 
could she marry Clifford when his talk of love sick- 
ened her so that she longed for any means of escape 
from him, so that she might think. While she 
struggled with this longing she remembered that 
now the hay was cut there was a short way home 
across one of the Appledore meadows, and that they 
were drawing near the stile which led from this 
meadow into the road. This remembrance restored 
her self-control, and she listened with less pre- occu- 
pation when Michael weiit on speaking. 

“ Do you agree with me,” he said, ‘‘ that our mar- 
riage had better take place before your father gives 
up the farm? ” 

Every step was bringing them nearer the stile, 
and Ruth felt nerved to speak more boldly than she 
could have spoken if she had had to walk another 
half mile beside him. 

With the prospect of escape her mind was freer, 


192 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


more able to see things really. It was, she felt, un- 
true and therefore degrading to allow Michael Clifford 
to go on in ignorance of her real feelings toward him ; 
it was acting a falsehood. 

Her continued silence was trying him almost be- 
yond his power of endurance. 

‘‘You will understand,” he said nervously, “that 
your feelings in this matter will guide me far more 
than my regard for what is probably likely to be best 
for your father? ” 

They were close to the stile. Ruth stood still ; she 
looked at him fully, and she kept her eyes fixed un- 
fiinchingly on his, in spite of the love she saw glowing 
in them. She had made up her mind ; she dared not 
tell Mr. Clifford all the truth ; it seemed to her that 
what had passed between her and Reginald Beving- 
ton was her own ; it only concerned her now, and no 
one had a right to share that sorrowful yet sweet 
memor5^ But she could not be so false as to let this 
man suppose that she had any love for him. It was 
a struggle to begin to say this, but when she had 
begun her words came far more easily than she had 
expected. She was so little in sympathy with Clifford 
at this moment that she could not realize the pain 
she gave. 

“I am not anxious for delay,” she said calmly, 
“ but I wish you not to expect more from me than I 
can give you. This has all come so suddenly upon 
me that I have hardly had time to think about my 
feelings.” Her eyes fell at last under his searching 
glance ; her words were in a sense true, but she knew 
they did not contain the whole truth about her feel- 
ings. “You know, you must know” — the appeal in 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


193 


her voice moved him — that I think of you as my 
father’s, as our best friend, and” — she looked up at 
him, I will try to be a good and faithful wife to 
you ; but please to be patient with me ; I only ask 
you not to take me away from my father, even for a 
day, till his strength comes back and he is quite 
himself again.” 

Clifford was deeply touched, but that did not pre- 
vent him from being greatly cast down. 

Surely,” he said pleadingly, you would not mind 
leaving him for a week. You were not with him 
while he was at Purley. I propose that he should go 
with us from the church to Broad Street, and that 
we should leave him there in charge of Mrs. Voce 
until we come back; you see he would not feel 
strange, having been there so lately.” 

' Ruth shook her head. 

Please don’t think me obstinate,” she spoke gently 
but firmly ; ‘‘ I cannot leave him even for that short 
time. All this change will excite and agitate him. 
Who can say that a moment after we have left him 
he may not be again struck down? I should not 
have a peaceful moment if I were to leave him at 
such a time. If — if anything were to happen to him 
it would sadden all my life.” 

He bent his head; he was displeased and disap- 
pointed, but he was not quick at rejoinder, and he 
found no power to resist her. 

“It shall be as you wish,” he said slowly; then, as 
if he struggled with his own self-control, “ Am I to 
understand that you will fix a date with Mr. Bryant, 
and that you wish me to arrange everything with 
him?” 


13 


194 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


She gave him a bright smile, the first brightness 
he had seen in her face since their meeting. “ Thank 
you, yes ; that will be very kind.” They had reached 
the stile and she turned toward it. “ Please do not 
think me ungracious,” she said, ‘‘but I want to be 
alone ; I have had a tiring day, and my head aches 
past bearing. I will go this way. Good-by. ” 

She nodded, and then without further leave-taking 
she vaulted over the stile and was speeding across 
the meadow with long gliding steps, before he had 
recovered from his surprise at this sudden desertion. 

He stood looking after her, ready to gnash his 
teeth with anger at his own stupidity. He told him- 
self he ought to have spoken out when she gave him 
such a chance ; he ought to have told her that he was 
not willing to take her for his wife on such terms. 
He might have said he was willing to wait any time 
she chose to name for the joy of calling her his wife, 
if she could bring herself to feel more tenderly toward 
him, but that he would not marry a woman who 
was only willing to take him from a feeling of 
gratitude. 

While he stood debating with himself whether he 
should follow her and tell her he retracted his offer. 
Ruth passed out of sight ; and by some strange magic, 
now that he could no longer see her in actual pres- 
ence, the remembrance of her beauty, of all that made 
her to him so irresistible, so bewitching, seized him 
with renewed strength. He began to chide himself 
for faint-heartedness. She must think him a timid 
fool ; he had not even held her hand in his, he had 
not attempted the slightest approach to a caress. No 
true woman would allow herself to be won in such a 


,APPLEDORE FARM. 


195 


tepid way as that. He resolved that the next meet- 
ing should happen in-doors, and he would then try 
whether a tenderer, warmer mode of wooing would 
not soften her and break down the terrible barrier 
which now seemed to keep them so coldly apart. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


Michael’s resolution was not carried into action. 
He saw his sister off next morning, and in the after- 
noon he received a note from Appledore, written by 
Ruth from her father’s dictation. The marriage was 
fixed for that day three weeks. Philip Bryant urged 
that it might not be delayed beyond that period ; he 
wrote that he was willing to leave the farm on 
Michael’s wedding-day, if this was thought advisa- 
ble. Inside the envelope, on a crumpled bit of paper 
and in a crabbed writing, were these words, Leave 
Ruth alone a couple of days; she’s shy. P. B.” 

Michael twisted the bit of paper angrily between 
his fingers, and then tore it into fragments. He felt 
angry and impatient. If Ruth were shy, that was 
only a natural feeling, far more likely to be overcome 
in his presence than in his absence. He was half 
tempted to disregard the foolish suggestion and to 
ride over at once to Appledore; for the next day he 
would have to spend at Newbridge, where he would 
probably sleep. He reflected, however, that the note 
might have been suggested by Ruth, although she 
did not write it ; and he felt that it would be unkind 
to thwart her. It seemed incredible that in three 
weeks ghe would be his own, his wife; thenceforth 
nothing need evermore part them. His eyes bright- 
ened, his chest swelled and broadened; the man’s 
196 


APPLEDOBE FABM. 


197 


whole figure seemed to dilate with an ineffable sense 
of joy and triumph, as he murmured the refrain of a 
German song which he had sometimes sung to please 
Dorothy. 

“ She is mine, she is mine ; she has told me she is mine. ” 

The last phrase was true, but not in the sense he 
desired. 

‘^Well” — he had stood thinking for a while — 
believe I expect too much. A French girl is not 
expected to love her future husband till after the 
ceremony of marriage. It must surely be my own 
fault if I cannot teach my darling to love me in the 
future.” 

Michael did not note that the naming of his wed- 
ding-day, with the secure feeling it had given him, 
had completely blotted out his desire to wait for his 
happiness till Ruth had learned to love him. 

He was an untiring man of business, but he always 
found time before he left his room to read each morn- 
ing a few verses from an ^^Imitatio” which his 
mother had given him when he left school. This 
morning his reading had ended with the verse, For 
man proposes, but God disposes ; for man’s way is 
not in himself.” He had a slightly uneasy feeling 
as he put the book down, but he had to hurry over 
his breakfast to get the early train for Newbridge; 
he had also to see the paper-hanger and plasterer. 
Then he gave orders to other work-people about vari- 
ous alterations he wished completed in the house 
before Ruth became its mistress. 

When these orders were given he started for New- 
bridge. He thought that if all went well, and he 


198 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


found the people he had to see there disengaged, he 
might get back to Parley that night by the last train, 
or at any rate he should get one which left Newbridge 
at five in the morning ; but of this there was no cer- 
tainty. He felt full of energy and determination, as 
he saw how much had to be done before his marriage. 
He decided that if Ruth still refused to leave her 
father they would take Mr. Bryant away with them, 
for he longed to get a few days’ holiday with his wife 
before he settled down to regular work-a-day exist- 
ence as a married man. They would go, he thought, 
if Ruth approved, to a little seaside place on the 
Welsh coast — not too long a journey for the invalid, 
and where the scenery would delight Ruth and the 
fine air would strengthen her father. 

He was planning all this as he sat in the railway 
carriage, and unconsciously repeated to himself the 
refrain of the song. All at once the vision that had 
filled his mind left him, and he seemed to hear the 
words, “Man proposes, man proposes,” and nothing 
else except the shrill whistle of the engine as it neared 
a tunnel. 

When he reached Newbridge his business soon 
absorbed him to the exclusion of every other thought. 
It was doubtless this singular power of concentration 
that enabled Michael Clifford to grasp all questions 
submitted to him so conclusively and so firmly that 
his opinion on, or his solution of, a difficulty at once 
carried weight with it. His reputation already ex- 
tended far beyond his own county. To-day, before 
he had half finished his business in Newbridge, he 
was met by a request that he would go on next 
morning to Chester, his presence there being, he was 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


199 


told by one of his clients, absolutely necessary in 
regard to the valuation of an estate about to be pur- 
chased by the brother of the said client. 

He did not, therefore, return to Purley till late in 
the afternoon of the day after he had left it — too late, 
he knew, to go on to Appledore. 

At breakfast next day a letter reached him from 
Miss Letitia Vareham; it begged him to come at 
once to his sister. Dorothy had seemed ill on her 
first arrival, the writer said, but next morning she 
was in such an excited and fevered state that Miss 
Vareham called in a doctor; he pronounced the pa- 
tient to be very seriously ill, and suggested that a 
nurse should be sent for. Michael rubbed his fore- 
head with the palm of his strong, brown hand. He 
loved Dorothy very dearly, but he was only human. 
To-morrow was Sunday, and he had counted on spend- 
ing it at Appledore. 

Obstacles seemed to be thickening on the path of a 
better understanding with his darling Ruth. He 
smiled at himself. Was not all this contradiction 
and thwarting of purpose an omen of future happi- 
ness? The course of true love was proverbially hin- 
dered. Only the arranged and wealthy marriages 
in which love was not a necessary condition went on 
evenly, without let or hindrance, till they were ac- 
complished ; it was the “ afterwards” with them that 
was full of thorny disappointments. 

But by the time Clifford was half way on his jour- 
ney to Carlisle he was thinking more of Dorothy 
than of Ruth. Dorothy had always been so good to 
him! She had never said so to Michael, but his 
brother David had told him years ago that their sis- 


200 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


ter might have been married if she had not devoted 
herself to make a home for her youngest brother 
when her father died. He rejoiced that he had not 
consented to Dorothy’s idea of leaving him. He re- 
solved that when he had gained Ruth’s love he would 
persuade his sister to spend a large part of every year 
with them, even if she would not consent to look on 
the old house in Broad Street as her home. 

It was a terrible shock when he reached his desti- 
nation to find that Dorothy was so ill that she did 
not recognize him ; it was not possible that he could 
leave her till there was a favorable change. He 
wrote to Mr. Bryant and to Ruth to explain the rea- 
son of his continued absence from Appledore. He 
also wrote to a friend of his in Purley to ask him to 
keep watch on the work-people he was employing 
about his house, so that all might be ready. He had 
engaged the friend to be his best man at the wedding, 
and he still hoped that Dorothy would recover so 
that it might take place at the appointed time. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


It was the day before the wedding. Ruth had 
been restless since early morning. She had risen 
about five o’clock, and had gone round the farm, vis- 
iting every little nook and corner of the place in 
which she had spent her young life. She was in 
sore distress. The news of Miss Clifford’s illness 
had come to her with the relief of a reprieve: it 
seemed to the girl that it must defer the wedding ; 
and then, when she learned that the crisis of the 
fever was over, and that Dorothy was pronounced 
out of danger, the revulsion came. Ruth saw the 
extent of her mistake ; she was tangled in a net of 
her own making, and she longed with all the strength 
of her nature to free herself from her promise to 
marry Clifford. 

This longing had been greatly increased a few 
days ago. Michael Clifford had returned to Purley, 
and had come over next day to Appledore. Ruth 
forced herself to receive him kindly, and she found 
this easier than she had expected, because she was 
not alone with him. Philip Bryant was not so well, 
and he lay on the sofa during Michael’s visit. Ruth 
went to the door with Mr. Clifford, but she talked 
persistently of his sister and her illness. He held 
her hand a moment as they parted, and then he bent 
over her and kissed her cheek. 

201 


202 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


She did not draw back, but a deep flush overspread 
her face, and she kept her eyes flxed on the ground. 

She had not seen him since, for an accumulation 
of business kept him at work from early morning till 
late ; but he had asked leave to spend this last even- 
ing at the farm, as there were many things he wished 
to arrange, he said, both with her and with her 
father. Ruth was walking up and down the gravel 
path beneath her window. She had at first begun 
by reasoning with herself on the almost childish re- 
pugnance she felt toward her marriage, but her 
efforts at this self-conquest were fruitless; they 
seemed to recoil on herself, and to stir up a feeling 
of intolerable shrinking from Michael Clifford. She 
looked up at her window as she passed beneath it, 
and pictured the figure of Reginald Bevington paus- 
ing below it, as he had so often done, till she seemed 
to hear his soft, refined voice calling her to come out. 
She shivered, and suddenly broke loose from all 
the specious reasoning she had been repeating so 
mechanically to herself. 

“ I cannot do it, I will not do it ; it is unnatural, 
it is horrible ! ” 

In the midst of this tempest of feeling, that seemed 
to sway her to and fro, as the west wind sways some 
tall and slender tree, she was trying to keep an out- 
ward calm. “Besides, I know it will make me 
wicked ; I — I — shall learn to hate Michael when he 
is really my husband ; I — I shall wish he were Reg- 
gy.” She stood still a moment thinking. “It must 
be stopped,” she said firmly. “I could not answer 
for myself if I were to be made so miserable. Who 
knows? I might be tempted to put an end to my life, 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


203 


or to run away. Such a marriage cannot bring hap- 
piness to Michael or to any one else. I shall speak 
to him to-night.” 

A soothing calm passed over her as she saw a 
chance of escape. She walked up and down, trying 
to plan some way of effecting it. In her present 
mood she felt desperate enough to maker an appeal to 
Michael himself. Surely if she confessed to him 
that she still loved Reginald Bevington he would set 
her free. But almost as the idea came she saw she 
must have her father’s sanction for such an appeal. 
A sudden withdrawal on Michael’s part might bring 
back the trouble of mind which had caused the illness 
in the spring. Ruth had not much reliance on his 
judgment, but he was her father ; and children seem 
to have sometimes a superstitious belief in the re- 
serves of a parent’s wisdom — this, be it said, when 
they are themselves in trouble, and think that a 
father or mother is bound to help them. 

She went in to seek her father ; he was not in his 
usual place in the porch : she found him on the sofa 
in the parlor, not lying down, but leaning against 
the cushions with a look of suffering on his face. 

‘‘What is it, dear? ” she said tenderly. 

“Only my head,” he answered. “I feel so faint 
and dizzy.” 

She saw that he must not be disturbed, and she 
determined to wait till after his afternoon nap. At 
dinner-time he said he felt all right again, and after- 
ward he declined Ruth’s proposal that he should lie 
down as usual in his own room; 

“Well, no, child,” he answered. “ This is our last 
day; let us be together.” 


204 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


She rose and kissed him even more affectionately 
than usual ; and then, when she had placed him com- 
fortably on his sofa, they talked for a while about 
ordinary things which had no interest to either of 
them. 

Ruth’s restlessness had increased as the day wore 
on. She now began to walk up and down the room 
till she taxed her father’s patience. 

‘^What ails you, darling?” he said. ‘‘I thought 
I was fidgety enough, but you beat me. Your dear 
mother would have said you must have got quick- 
silver in your boots ! ” 

She stopped, and turning round she smiled at him ; 
but he thought she seemed sad. 

‘‘I believe,” she said in a hurried, nervous tone 
that was wholly foreign to her, in fact I know that 
I cannot rest or be at peace until I have spoken to 
you, father; only I am afraid of worrying you and 
bringing back your headache.” 

My head is right enough,” he said ; “ tell out your 
trouble, my girl, if it will ease you.” 

Her way was clear enough now, and she could not 
speak ; her lips felt parched and dry, and her tongue 
seemed powerless. She tried to speak, but no words 
came, and her blue eyes fixed themselves on her father 
in a strained gaze almost like that of some poor 
hunted creature in dread of pursuit. 

Her father’s face reflected the trouble he saw in 
her eyes, and unconsciously he broke the spell that 
chained her tongue. 

What is it, my Ruthie? ” he said tenderly. “ Tell 
your father — won’t you, pet? — what ’tis that’s troub- 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


205 


ling you. A trouble is half the weight to carry 
when ’tis shared, honey.” 

She knelt down beside him and hid her eyes on his 
shoulder. 

“I don’t know,” she said wearily; she felt her 
burden was too heavy to carry any farther. “I’m 
afraid, sorely afraid, that in telling you I may sim- 
ply shift sorrow from myself to you. Well, dear, 
it’s this. Please forgive me, but I cannot keep my 
promise ; I must tell Michael Clifford when he comes 
that I cannot be his wife to-morrow. ” 

Bryant’s face flushed till the girl felt frightened. 
When he spoke his voice sounded thick and broken, 
like that of a drunkard. 

“I’m ruined, then — a ruined, disgraced man, who 
can never show his face again among decent folks ! 
Ruined by my own child ! Ruth, Ruth ! I could not 
have expected this of you ! ” 

He pressed his hand over his eyes and sank back 
on the sofa cushions. 

Ruth rose from her knees : she felt like a criminal ; 
she could not plead her own cause; the agony in her 
father’s tone had completely unnerved her. There 
was silence; then all at once he sat upright and 
looked sternly at her. 

“ What is your reason for this extraordinary 
change? You must have a reason.” His tone as 
he said this was calmer than she expected. 

She had resolved to tell him her secret, but even if 
she had not so determined she was by this time too 
much overwrought to hesitate. 

“ I love another man.” 


206 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


Her voice was steady, and she kept her eyes fixed 
on his face, from which the deep flush had not yet 
faded. 

Her father did not answer at once ; he sat rubbing 
his hands one against the other ; he seemed lost in 
thought. 

“This man you love,” he said slowly, “loves you, 
I suppose?” She bent her head. “He is perhaps 
not rich enough to marry you for some time to come. 
Is that so? You told a falsehood, then, when you 
said you were free? ” 

Ruth had dreaded this question; she hung her 
head; she could not meet her father’s eyes as she 
answered : 

“ I am free in that way ; I have no hope that he 
will ever be able to marry me.” 

Her father’s face changed ; a heavy frown settled 
on it. 

“ Then you have no right to go on caring for him ; 
he must be a mere trifler, a weak, philandering fool 
— worse still, I doubt. How dared the fellow try to 
win the affection of such a girl as you are, when he 
knew he could not marry you?” He uttered an 
oath, which alarmed her — it was so unlike him. 
“You are not the girl to — to fling yourself in the 
way of a man who did not seek you. I’ve seen that 
for myself. ” 

“ Perhaps I ” she began, but he checked her. 

“Let that subject be dead and buried,” he burst 
out angrily — so very angrily that she remembered 
with terror the doctor’s warning that he must never 
be allowed to excite himself. “ I will not hear an- 
other syllable about your folly. You have lowered 


APPLEDOBE FARM. 


207 


my opinion of your sense in letting me know that 
you yielded to such an infatuation. Never speak of 
it to any one. Turn your back on it, and be thank- 
ful that only your father has learned it from you.” 

Whether her confession had robbed her of more 
strength than she had to spare, or whether this new, 
strange eloquence in her father had frightened away 
the determined resolution with which she had strung 
herself up to speak, Ruth felt stupefied and helpless. 
The net from which she had momentarily freed her- 
self once more closed round her, and as her father 
went on speaking the hope of possible escape faded 
away. 

“You have told your story, Ruth,” he went on 
more quietly; “now I will tell you mine. You have 
heard some of it before, but my risk has become 
heavier. Did I make you fully understand that 
Michael is my only creditor, that everything we have 
— the very clothes we wear — are all paid for by his 
money? If he withdraws his help I must either go 
to the workhouse or die in a ditch. Perhaps I told 
you this before; I am in a far worse position now.” 

He stopped abruptly, with such a look of utter 
misery on bis face that Ruth feared some fresh mis- 
fortune had befallen him. 

“Tell me what has made things worse, father?” 
she said. 

He shrugged his shoulders with discontent. 

“Such a question to ask! As easy for you to 
know as for me.” He thought she was affecting this 
ignorance, and so making it more painful to him to 
explain. Philip Bryant had not been considered 
selfish by those who loved him, because of his sin- 


208 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


gularly genial and winning manner. Even Sally 
Voce, prejudiced as she had been against him, had 
grown devoted to his service since she had been in 
daily contact with him ; and in her present extremity 
Ruth blamed herself far more for having agreed to 
her father’s wishes than she blamed him for having 
urged Michael’s suit on her acceptance. She waited 
now for him to go on speaking ; by this time she had 
learned that he would not bear a grievance in silence. 

“The only hope I had of paying that poor chap 
back, or of making him any sort of compensation, 
was in your being good to him, Ruth. You said 
you were free, and so I took it for granted you would 
be able to care for him. Instead of that you’ve gone 
and done what I never looked to see your mother’s 
daughter do: you’ve led the poor fellow on; you’ve 
cherished his hopes, I may say, till he’s a hundred 
times more in love with you than he was a month 
ago. He has begun to feel sure of you, and now you 
want to dash all his hopes. I never thought you’d 
prove so heartless — never ! ” 

Something in Ruth protested, but as she looked 
at his saddened face, still slightly drawn on oite side, 
she felt that her opposition was selfish. She could 
only be unhappy; she was that already, and there 
was, so far as she could see, no brightness in the sol- 
itar}^ life that lay before her. She could evidently 
make her father happy if she gave up her own will 
in this matter; and Michael had said he would be 
satisfied if she would try to love him. Would he be 
happy if he knew the truth? Before she could satisfy 
herself on this head her father began to speak again. 
His voice trembled with agitation. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


209 


You must take your choice. Michael will soon 
be here, so you have not much time to decide in. I 
want you to understand fully what you are about. 
The disgrace of finding myself a pauper, unable to 
pay a penny that I owe, will certainly kill me; it is 
not possible that I can survive such a shock. But I 
do not want to be selfish, my girl,” he said in a 
gentler tone than he had used since the beginning of 
the talk, for he felt just now full of heroic self-sacri- 
fice ; I am trying to study you entirely in this affair. 
You have got to choose between the indulgence of 
this hopeless fancy — I understood you to say that it 
is a hopeless fancy — and my life.” 

He had so exliausted himself that he burst into 
tears and covered his face with his handkerchief. 

Ruth felt a touch of anger ; she thought her father 
must know that she could not hesitate in the choice 
he offered her. But her anger passed quickly as she 
put her arms round him and felt that he was quiver- 
ing with emotion. 

^‘Hush, dear, dearest father!” she whispered; 
forget what I told you. I see there is no way but 
this one.” 

God bless you, my dear, good child 1” He kissed 
her fondly as he spoke, but his words sank like lead 
upon her heart. She could hardly return his loving 
kisses. She felt crushed, enslaved ; all spontaneous 
power of action or expression had left her. She put 
her hand on the back of the nearest chair, for she 
was faint and unsteady. 

Her father saw her sudden paleness, but he would 
not allude to it. 

“You had better rest, darling,” he said tenderly. 

14 


210 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


Go and lie down ; I will send for you when Michael 
and I have finished our talk.” 

Philip Bryant’s excitement seemed to have braced 
him; he sat thinking after Ruth had left him. He 
finally decided not to give her the chance of speaking 
to Michael Clifford except in his presence. 

‘‘ ’Tis all for her own good,” he thought. ‘‘ When 
they are man and wife she will hold her tongue for 
her own sake.” 

Sally Voce came in presently to look for Miss Bry- 
ant ; the rector had sent her a present ; but her father 
said she was to be left undisturbed ; she was not even 
to be told when Mr. Clifford came. 

“Show him in to me, Sally; I have to speak to 
him alone. You can fetch Miss Ruth when I tell 
you to do so.” 

He spoke with so much dignity that the old woman 
looked surprised. 

“ The idee that the poor man should take to being 
masterful ! ” she said to herself, as she went back to 
her kitchen. 

Sally made up for want of feeling by sharpness of 
observation. Her keen perception led her to almost 
as correct a conclusion as the most sympathetic in- 
sight would have done. She was entirely dissatisfied 
with Mr. Clifford’s courtship. He might have stayed 
a day or two with his sister, she thought; but to 
neglect Miss Ruth and “ his reg’lar opportoonities” 
in the way he had done was something unheard of, 
she told herself, considering how very short the 
courting-time had been. 

“ ’Tis enough to set Miss Ruth agin him; and his 
gifts isn’t up to the mark, neither. There now ! if 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


211 


Voce had brought me a parcel of books instead of 
trinkets an’ such like when he was coortin’, Lor’ ! 
I’d pretty quick have given him the cold shoulder. 
I grant he’s as good as gold, is Mr. Clifford; but he 
knows no more about young women’s fancies than a 
Jew knows about roast pork; he’ll maybe be wiser 
by an’ by. Lor’ ! you can’t roast a jint without 
practice.” 

Sally had even begun to entertain a doubt about 
the warmth of Clifford’s love; but when he at last 
arrived at the farm, he looked so radiantly happy 
that she felt ashamed of having wronged him. 

Ruth pinched her pale cheeks when she came 
downstairs in answer to her father’s summons. 

Michael had come out into the hall to meet her, 
and he stood at the foot of the stairs. She let him 
kiss her and put his arm round her for a moment 
without any sign of annoyance; she did not, how- 
ever, linger with him, but passed on into the parlor 
where her father sat anxiously looking for her. 

‘‘Michael and I have settled it all, my dear,” he 
said gravely; “and now you must open the rector’s 
parcel and see what he has been good enough to send 
you.” 

Ruth looked at him gratefully. The parcel took 
some time to open, and when the Bible and Prayer- 
book it contained had been duly admired they had 
to be replaced in their numerous wrappings. Then 
there were inquiries to be made for Dorothy, and 
after that Ruth did not know what next to say. 

Once more her father came to her help ; he began 
a series of anecdotes about his sister, Mrs. Whishaw’s 
wedding, and after these were exhausted, about his 


212 


APPLEDOBE FABM. 


own. This last topic checked his sudden flow of 
gayety; but after a short silence. he began to ask 
Michael questions about the seaside place to which 
they were going to-morrow. 

Ruth tried to be cheerful, but Michael felt that it 
was hard to expect gayety from either father or 
daughter on the eve of leaving their old home. He 
wished now that it had not been so arranged, but it 
was too late to alter plans. Soon after tea he rose to 
say good-by, feeling that they would probably like 
to be together on this last evening. 

He went to the sofa and shook hands with Philip 
Bryant ; then he turned to the door, in the hope that 
Ruth would follow him into the hall for leave taking. 

Ruth, however, saw no reason why she should not 
bid him good-by before her father. She put her 
hand in his, but his warm clasp did not bring a 
flush to her cheek ; and to his surprise she held up 
her face to be kissed. 

There was nothing to complain of, and yet he felt 
dissatisfled ; he did not care for this formal show of 
affection, and as he mounted his horse he told him- 
self that Ruth might have given him a few minutes 
alone with her. Presently, as he rode along the 
quiet highroad, already whitened by the rising moon, 
he rebuked himself. Ruth knew that she would be- 
long to him to-morrow. She had been unwilling to 
rob her father of a moment of the time in which she 
was still entirely his. 

“Come here, darling,” Bryant said, when he and 
Ruth were left alone. “Kiss me, my Ruth. You 
have behaved nobly in this matter ; I pray God may 
bless you for your goodness, and he will. You are 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


213 


sure of a good husband, and a far better home than 
your poor ruined father could ever have given you, 
child.” He paused and wiped his eyes; then in a 
more cheerful tone, “You will bless this day, child; 
and before very long, either, you will bless your 
father for the part he took in bringing it about.” 

He looked at her wistfully, as if he hoped even 
then for thanks, but Ruth’s strength was spent; she 
smiled in answer, but she only said : 

“ I think you have had discussion enough to-day, 
father; won’t you go to bed earlier than usual, so 
that you may not be over-tired to-morrow? ” 

He answered that he was not tired, but he looked 
excited; and Ruth rang for Sally Voce to help him 
to his room. She bade him good-night, and then 
she abruptly left him, so as to meet Sally in the hall. 

The old woman came out of the door leading to 
the house-place rubbing her small eyes with the 
backs of her chubby, pink fists, till it seemed as if 
she must pound them into her head. 

“Please leave the front door unfastened,” Ruth 
said in a low voice ; “ I want to take a last turn round 
the place in the moonlight; there’ll not be time to- 
morrow. But you need not speak of it to father, 
Sally; he’s sad enough already at leaving. Good- 
night! I’ll lock up all right when I come in.” 

Sally Voce stared suspiciously out of her small 
eyes, as she said good-night to Miss Bryant. What 
was the gal up to now? the old woman wondered. 
She looked just as white and miserable as a body 
could look; not a scrap like a happy bride. 

“I shall just keep an eye on her,” Sally thought; 
“and I’ve more than half a mind to tell Mr. Bryant.” 


214 


APPLE DOliE FARM. 


Meantime Ruth had gone upstairs. There was no 
hope of escape for her now, and her despair made 
her reckless. Only the thought of her father kept 
her from going out alone into the world. It seemed 
to her that to walk on and on along the road till she 
dropped lifeless from exhaustion would be a far hap- 
pier fate than to become Michael Clifford’s wife 
while she still loved Reginald Bevington. She must 
love Reggy; she could not help it. She gave herself 
up to the thought of him, and when she reached her 
room she changed the dress she wore for that blue 
gown which suited her so well, and which he had 
liked to see her in. She had never worn it since his 
last visit, but now she put it on with a sort of de- 
spairing tenderness. Then she passed quietly down 
the stairs, out at the front door, and along the narrow 
alley that led to the orchard. The side window of 
her father’s room looked this way, and instinctively 
Ruth glanced in that direction. His light was out 
and she sighed with relief, for she hoped he was 
asleep. 

The orchard was bathed in moonlight, the foliage 
of the appletrees, as white as if the hoar frost lay on 
it, and the dark stems beneath shone a bluish silver 
where the light touched them ; their quaint, gnarled 
arms looked goblin-shaped in the unwonted radiance 
— a cold weird radiance, that chilled while it fasci- 
nated the eye. Ruth was utterly heedless of obser- 
vation as she made her way to the center of the 
orchard, to the spot where little more than a year 
ago her lover had made her confess that she loved 
him, and had held her in his arms. 

If I could have died then ! If I could only have 


AFFLEDORE FARM. 


215 


died ! ” she moaned, as she leaned against the rough 
bark of an old tree, heedless of its rasping graze 
against her tender cheek; she enjoyed the painful 
feeling; it was in harmony with her thoughts. She 
would be sad to-night; there was no one to let or 
hinder. It could harm no one if she gave free course 
to her sorrow. Something seemed to warn her that 
her sorrow was rebellious. Something faintly whis- 
pered that if she tried to cast out the thought of her 
young lover her mind would be clearer as to what 
she ought to do ; but she hardened herself resolutely, 
even against the feeling that she was going to do a 
wrong in marrying Michael Clifford. The whisper 
died away and she was left to herself. She told her- 
self that after to-morrow she must always lead a life 
of formal duty, and that she had a right to give her- 
self up to-night to the wild, passionate longings that 
racked her. She forgot alike place and time; she 
clasped her arms round the hoary trunk beside her, 
and wished that she could die. If she could only be 
lying beside her young mother in the church-yard ! 

When at last Ruth turned to leave the orchard the 
stars were fading out of sight; the moon had been 
some while ago hidden by a bank of threatening 
cloud. A pale glimmer in the east told her that 
morning was on its way, and that her wedding-day 
had dawned. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


It was evident on this 15th of July that Saint 
Swithin remembered his ancient grievance. Mrs. 
Bevington sat near the window of her drawing-room, 
and every now and then as she raised her eyes from 
the paper she was reading the sight that met them 
was that of a continued downpour, so violent that a 
series of small puddles were forming on the gravelled 
terrace below. It was an extraordinary change, for 
two days before, on Ruth Bryant’s wedding morn- 
ing, the sky had been a cloudless blue and the sun- 
shine intense and scorching. 

There was no one to see her, and Mrs. Bevington 
yawned from sheer weariness of the dreary outlook. 
She wondered whether any mother had ever been 
tried as she had been. A bad son, a profligate or a 
drunkard, a man who had got into a card scandal 
and had been sent to Coventry by society — these were 
cases that Mrs. Bevington had heard of ; and she had 
always pitied the mothers of such sons, and had been 
pathetic over the sad mistakes which she considered 
they must have made in bringing up their black 
sheep. Her own case was so very different ; she had 
taken all possible care, and her son was in her eyes 
almost perfect. If Reginald’s father had not made 
the mistake of placing him with that farmer, without 
taking the trouble to ascertain whether the farmer 
had an attractive daughter, all would have gone as 
216 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


217 


his mother wished it to go, and by this time Reggy 
would have been the contented husband of Clara 
Stretton. Poor, dear Reggy had been so badly used, 
first by this designing farm-house beauty, who had 
evidently expected to marry him, and then by the 
Strettons, who had broken off his engagement to 
Clara when some gossip from Purley had reached 
them respecting his visits to Miss Bryant. 

Reginald’s carelessness had enabled Mrs. Beving- 
ton to read several of Ruth’s letters, and the anxious 
mother plainly saw in them that the girl was either 
very designing or very innocent ; she also saw that 
Ruth believed herself to be engaged to Reginald. 

She sighed with relief as a tall, very stylish-looking 
woman came gliding into the room and sank into a 
luxurious chair beside her hostess. Mrs. Bevington 
looked sadly at the new-comer ; she had few secrets 
that she did not share with this cousin ; she knew 
that she could safely speak of her troubles to one 
who had before now confided to her safe-keeping 
some decidedly risky” passages of her own life. 
Lady Emily Walton had married young, and she 
had had an unhappy married existence : she was now 
middle-aged and free, and for the first time since her 
widowhood she had come to stay at Bevington Man- 
or-house. 

She moved so well, the poise of her head was so 
perfect, that the mingled grace and dignity of^ her 
tall figure gave more pleasure to the observer than 
the contemplation of a mere pretty face would have 
given. She dressed well, too — just now in black, 
though without the show of deep mourning that 
might have been thought consistent with the loss of 


218 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


a husband who had died rather less than a year ago. 
There was fashion enough in her dress to suit even 
an exacting person in such a matter, but it was fash- 
ion adapted to the person of the wearer, instead of 
the wearer being adapted to the rules of fashion. It 
must, however, be said that Lady Emily’s figure, 
whether it-were the product of Art or of Nature, set 
off everything she wore to the best advantage. 

She had large and bright eyes — they were perhaps 
rather hard and audacious in expression; a mouth 
that looked as greedy as that of a fish, though her 
lips were still red and her teeth white ; a large and 
singularly thin, aquiline nose, which seemed bent on 
acquiring. It was perhaps this acquisitive expres- 
sion that prevented her from being handsome. 

Sighing again, Rosamond? ” she wheeled herself 
nearer her cousin, her skirt falling in long, sweeping 
folds that would have delighted a figure-painter. 
“ It is always the same tune that you sigh to — that 
naughty, darling boy? ” 

“In a way, yes; I was sighing about Reggy. I 
have just discovered a new feature in the case. You 
will say I ought to rejoice at it, but I am not sure. 
I want you to advise me what to do.” 

Lady Emily’s face brightened. She had a real 
regard for her cousin, but when she promised to 
come to Bevington she by no means intended to be 
the Qiilj visitor at the manor-house. On her arrival 
she had been dismayed to find that Mr. Bevington 
was away yachting, and that no other guests were 
expected for a fortnight. She was, however, a thor- 
ough woman of the world, and, except toward her 
late husband, gifted with remarkable tact and good 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


219 


temper. At the sight of Mrs. Bevington’s disturbed 
face she took a cheerful, almost a jovial, tone, and 
patted her cousin’s shoulder. There was something 
enlivening in the prospect of a new feature in what 
she named “Reggy’s bewitchment.” 

The first thing to be attended to, dear child, is 
your forehead. Lord! Rosamond, if you frown in 
that way when you are puzzled you will have wrinkles 
before you are a year older. Look at my forehead ! 
I never allow anything to fret me seriously; life isn’t 
worth it, dear. I want you to consider this little 
affair reasonably. You incline to treat it as an 
affaire de cceur; in my opinion it was merely the 
consequence of propinquity. A charming young fel- 
low — for when he is in good spirits Reggy is very 
charming, even fo a woman of my standing — Reggy 
then, finds himself in an out-of-the-way country 
place, with no one to talk to except an occasional 
plough-boy and the farmer who is his instructor in 
agricultural matters, and who probably discourses 
from morning till night on the respective merits of 
shorthorns and of southdown sheep. The unlucky 
pupil gets these subjects on his nerves ; I fancy I can 
see the poor fellow yawning. All at once the much 
enduring and wholly bored youth finds out that a 
very handsome girl is living under the same roof. 
Their first meeting must have been a complete coup 
de theatre. Think how enchanted the girl must 
have been ! Of course propinquity and opportunity 
did the rest. The only possible outcome of the situ- 
ation was for the young fellow to fall in love ; the 
girl, you may be sure, had already set him the exam- 
ple. You may trust me, Rosamond; I once wrote a 


220 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


novel and regularly got up the subject of love. Bless 
you! I know all about it.” 

Mrs. Bevington gave a meaning smile. 

“If Reggy were not my son, I suppose ‘the be- 
witchment, ’ as you call it, would seem amusing to 
me. Now, I feel he was sinned against by being 
allowed to stay so long at Appledore.” 

“ And it seems to me, on the contrary, that at his 
age it was a mistake to interfere at all. You were 
hardly so judicious as usual, perhaps, when you 
summoned the young fellow home in such a hurry. 
You simply precipitated matters. Probably if you 
had left them alone the love-making would have 
come to the father’s knowledge, there would have 
been a scene and an explanation, the farmer would 
have seen that naturally Reggy did not mean mar- 
riage, and he would have kicked him out of the 
house. Some of that sort of people are strait-laced, 
you know, and they express their ideas rudely. An 
expulsion of that sort would have cured our fastidious 
Reggy, you may be sure ; or else, and I believe this 
is more likely, the father would have kept his eyes 
shut, and in the end Reggy would have tired of his 
mistress. Friction of any sort always rekindles that 
sort of flame. I fear, from what you say, that Reggy 
still hankers after the girl.” 

“Just after his engagement to Clara, about a 
month ago, he went to see this Ruth Bryant.” Mrs. 
Bevington sighed as she spoke. “ That is the reason 
the Strettons give for breaking off the engagement. 
Mr. Stretton’s gout makes him so very irritable, you 
see.” 

Her cousin laughed. “ Everything comes right if 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


221 


one knows how to wait. I had a letter from Geral- 
dine Vavasour this morning, and she tells me she 
was at Stretton last Monday. Clara scarcely spoke, 
she says, and looked wretched. Leave Clara and 
her father alone, my dear, and she’ll be only too 
happy to forgive her naughty boy when he gives up 
the farm beauty ; you really think too much about 
such a trifle.” 

She leaned back in her easy-chair and yawned ; she 
was far more distinguished-looking than Mrs. Bev- 
ington was, but far less punctilious, except when she 
was on parade. She yawned now till her mouth 
looked like a pike’s, and she put up one shapely hand 
before it and intrepidly crossed her long legs. Then, 
all at once she remembered Mrs. Bevington’s words, 
and she looked bright again. 

‘‘What did you say about a new feature in ‘the 
bewitchment?’ Please tell me! I am really inter- 
ested about it all.” 

Mrs. Bevington glanced at the paper she had been 
reading. 

“The girl’s marriage is announced in the local 
papers,” she said; “and there is a paragraph about 
the alarming illness of Mr. Bryant, the father, on 
the return of the wedding-party from church.” 

Lady Emily laughed. 

“ Capital I ” she said ; “ I am so glad she’s married 
— for your sake, I mean. I confess I had become in- 
terested in the little romance. Now, of course, it is 
over. Reggy will be disgusted at being set aside 
for some clod-hopper. He will be tiresome, of course ; 
but you will know how to manage him — just a case 
for your judicious handling, Rosamond! My poor 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


husband used to say you were perfect at dotting 
your i’s and crossing your t’s.” 

Mrs. Bevington’s face had cleared at the first part 
of her cousin’s sentence. “ I had not thought of it 
in that way ; my fear was that as Reggy likes the 
father he would go over to inquire for him, and then 
he would see the girl. There is no mother, and this 
Ruth is said to be such a devoted daughter that of 
course she is at Appledore nursing him. I don’t 
want Reggy to run the risk of seeing her.” 

“You forget the husband, the clod-hopper; surely 
he will be to the fore ! ” 

“He is not a clod-hopper, Emily; he is a Mr. 
Clifford. I remember he lunched here some time 
ago. He is, I believe, looked up to in the county. 
He knows about land and that sort of thing — quite 
well to do, I should think.” 

Lady Emily sat upright and looked very cheerfully 
at her cousin. 

“You need not worry yourself at all; this sort of 
man knows everything: middle-class people are al- 
ways so clever, don’t you know? The girl has 
m*arried him because he is well-off and well-consid- 
ered. For her own sake she will not do anything 
risky so soon after marriage. I really advise you to 
show Reggy that newspaper. Some kind friend is 
sure to tell him of the marriage. I find people so 
extremely considerate in that way.” She checked a 
sigh, and then as she looked out of the window she 
said, “Here comes Reggy, streaming with water. 
I shall depart, so as not to meet him. I would as 
soon come in contact with Bruno after a swim in the 
Severn.” 


APPLEDORE FARM. 2^3 

She left the room, smiliiig at the coming interview 
between mother and son ; she felt sure that it would 
be stormy. Meanwhile Mrs. Bevington, with a 
lightened heart, began to consider how she could 
best tell Reginald that Ruth Bryant had become Mrs. 
Clifford. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


The newspaper report was a true one. On his 
return from church Philip Bryant had suddenly 
turned giddy, and soon after a second stroke of pa- 
ralysis had seized him. This time the doctor was not 
so hopeful of even partial recovery. The insensible 
man was laid oh his bed, to all outward appearance 
dead ; and Ruth, who had hastily changed her wed- 
ding-gown, took her place by his side. 

Michael Clifford gave all necessary directions and 
then rode over to Purley to countermand orders and 
to order what was wanted in these changed circum- 
stances. Man proposes, ” he said to himself, not so 
bitterly now as when Dorothy’s illness had summoned 
him away from Purley; he said it to-day with a sort 
of reverent fear. The shock had at first been very 
great, and the disappointment keen almost beyond 
bearing ; but his ride gave him time for thought, and 
when he had executed his various commissions and 
had written certain necessary letters connected with 
this change of plans he felt calmer and more resigned. 

He was almost tranquil as he rode back in the 
evening to Appledore. He grieved for Ruth’s sorrow 
and for his friend, but the doctor told him that under 
any circumstances this must have come before long. 
Michael reminded himself how ardently he had 
wished, when he met Ruth on her return from New- 
bridge, that the marriage could be delayed, so that 
22i 


APPLEDOEE FARM, 


225 


he might have more chance of winning his wife’s 
love beforehand. It seemed to him a selfish idea, 
and yet he knew that during the farmer’s illness, and 
in the interval that must elapse before Ruth would 
be free to come and live with him at Purley, he 
should have far more opportunity of proving his de- 
votion than he might have found in the little wedding 
holiday he had planned at the seaside. Ruth was 
his wife; he was therefore justified by duty, as well 
as by inclination, in making her 'claims on him para- 
mount to those of any other person. 

He did not believe his poor old friend would long 
survive this last shock. Michael shuddered as he 
remembered the scene. If he had not been standing 
near, Philip Bryant must have fallen on the stones 
that paved the porch. This was a sad beginning to 
his darling’s new life, but he hoped that time would 
console her, and that little by little she would learn 
to care for his love, and at last would return it. 
Meantime he could not expect to come between her 
and her father. 

He went into Appledore by the farm-yard ; he did 
not wish to disturb his wife, and he wanted to speak 
to John Bird, who was to have been left in charge 
of the farmhouse and its accessories, conjointly with 
Mrs. Voce, till the arrival of the new tenants. 

Bird was standing in the yard chewing a straw 
between his strong, white teeth. His luxuriant 
brown hair and beard shone ruddy in the warm sun- 
light, his rich brown eyes glowed with color; he 
looked the personification of happy leisure as he 
stood with the sleeves of his blue shirt partly rolled 
up and showing far more brawn on his arms than 
15 


226 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


his string-tied fustian trousers vouched for in respect 
of legs. He made a superb contrast to the tired, 
jaded looking man who came up to him. 

Bird felt more awe for Mr. Clifford than he had 
ever felt for his master. He knew well enough that 
Mr. Bryant was willing to accept eye-service, and to 
take the will for the deed ; while Bird had seen for 
himself that Mr. Clifford looked into the inside of 
everything, from the building of a rick to the clean- 
liness of a byre or a pig-stye. Bird and Sally Voce 
disagreed about Miss Ruth’s husband, and Bird, 
who had promised himself at least a week of delight- 
ful idleness, was now half surly when Mr. Clifford 
spoke to him. 

Michael was too much absorbed in his own thoughts 
to notice the man’s manner. 

‘‘This is a sad ending to a wedding. Bird,” he 
said, “ but you will get some supper and a cake for 
the children. You will of course go on here as usual 
till Mrs. Clifford thinks it safe to move her father.” 

“Thank’ee, sir!” 

Bird stood looking after him as he passed on to 
the house. 

“ Mrs. Clifford ! ” he gave a coarse laugh. “ Him 
seems mighty pat wiv the new title. I’m thinkin’ 
’twad ha’ ben different wiv t’other one. Miss Ruth 
ood ha’ left her father for a day or so. Mrs. Woce 
and the doctor’s enough for the poor chap till he 
comes to hisself, and that won’t be just yet, the doc- 
tor told me so. I knows what I knows, an’ if yon 
man,” he nodded his head toward Michael, as he 
passed in by the door of the house-place, “ I says, if 
yon man, as takes so much on hisself, if he cared as 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


227 


he should care for Miss Ruth, like t’other one did, 
why he’d go in an’ he’d take her right away, he 
would, till such time as the poor old master comes 
to; an’ my missus is of the same mind as me, and 
that don’t often happen, nayther.” 

Bird had that da^^ drank Miss Bryant’s health in 
so many mugs of ale that it may be fairly supposed 
he was not in need of any more, or of the plentiful 
supper which Ruth had provided, but which she had 
now sent word should be taken to the men’s houses 
in place of the general meal she had planned, and 
which Mrs. Voce was to have presided over at the 
farmhouse. The loss of this convivial gathering had 
disappointed George Bird. “ ’Tis the jollity, not the 
drink, as I craves arter,” he growled, as he chewed 
the golden straw blade. 

Ruth met her husband at the door of the sick-room. 
She looked more cheerful than he expected, but she 
shook her head when he asked her if there was any 
decided improvement in her patient. 

She led the way into the hall, leaving the door 
ajar behind her. 

‘^Hardly,” she said. hoped you would not 
have come back; it is so sadly dull for you. You 
see I dare not leave him ; I have a feeling that con- 
sciousness will return more quickly this time, though 
Dr. Buchan did not seem to think so. I fancied just 
now that there was a slight movement in one of the 
eyelids. I must go back directly, please ; but if you 
really mean to stay I will give orders to Sally and 
tell her so.” 

Do you think I could leave you, my darling? ” 

He put his arm round her, and his passionate kiss 


228 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


made Ruth shrink away from him with almost a 
shudder. For the time she had forgotten that he 
was her husband. “ Do not trouble about anything, 
darling!” he said; “Mrs. Voce and I are old ac- 
quaintances. She will make it all right for me.” 

She did not ask him to come and look at her father 
and he did not intrude ; something warned him that 
it was wiser not to assume any rights over his wife 
beyond the right of aiding and protecting her to the 
utmost of his power. 

“ I will come and see how he is before I turn in,” 
he said cheerfully; “and darling, take all the rest 
you can; you will not be fit to go on nursing to- 
morrow unless you rest. ” 

He said this so tenderly that she felt ashamed of 
her harsh, cold feelings toward him ; she looked up 
with a smile. 

“I promise you I will be careful,” she said; “but 
I can rest better if I am left quite alone. I am not 
at all afraid, and if I want help I will call you.” 

She held out her hand, and he felt himself dis- 
missed ; he raised it to his lips, and so they parted. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


Dr. Buchan’s brown, clean-shaved face looked 
almost handsome with pleasure as he fixed his sharp 
eyes on Ruth. 

I congratulate you on your nursing, Mrs. Clifford. 
I really did not expect your dear father to have made 
such a good recovery. If he goes on as he has 
begun, it will not be long before you can take him 
home with you to Purley.” 

Ruth had turned abruptly away from him ; she did 
not want this keen observer to watch her face, she 
felt she was growing pale and faint when he would 
think she ought to smile, and yet, it was not possible 
that she could rejoice in hearing this opinion of her 
father’s state. 

‘^Do not let us move him too soon,” she said. 
have sometimes thought that the idea of leaving 
Appledore was partly the cause of this last attack. I 
am sure he ought not to move till he wishes to do so.” 

The doctor bowed rather stiffly, she thought ; she 
had turned to him again as she finished speaking. 

“ I do not presume to advise” — there was a vexed 
tone in his voice. Perhaps I was considering the 
matter from my friend Clifford’s point of view. He 
told me the incoming tenant was tired of waiting, 
and would ‘cry off’ if he was kept much longer from 
taking possession.” 

“ I had not thought of that,” the girl said frankly, 
229 


230 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


She liked Dr. Buchan, and his changed tone had 
pained her ; but she could not set herself right in his 
opinion by affecting a wish to go to her husband’s 
house. 

When the dapper little man had taken leave Ruth 
stood thinking, her eyes bent on the flower-bed 
below the latticed casement. She had left her father 
in charge of Sally Voce, but he was awake, and she 
knew she should get no thinking-time when she 
rejoined him. 

The doctor’s words had given her a rude awaken- 
ing.- At first when her agony of alarm was quieted 
by the signs of her father’s returning life she had 
told herself that this was a merciful reprieve, and 
she had tried to put the memory of her marriage in 
the background. Little by little she had succeeded 
in bringing back the barrier between herself and 
Michael Clifford which had so tormented him during 
their engagement. Lately, indeed, she had always 
rung for Sally Voce to open the door for him, so as 
to curtail as much as possible any affectionate leave- 
taking. 

It had seemed to her that, although her father had 
recovered consciousness sooner than he had in the 
spring, he had less recuperative power, and that it 
might be long before he was able to leave his bed. 
More than one plan of freeing herself from her hus- 
band had passed through her brain, but her father 
required such constant attention that she had decided 
to watch and wait. A few days ago, however, 
Michael had made a suggestion that gave her a hope 
of escape. 

One of his clients, he told her, was in treaty for a 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


231 


large property in Burgundy, and had said that he 
could not decide on the purchase without Mr. Clif- 
ford’s opinion. Michael told Ruth that but for her 
unwillingness to leave her father he should have en- 
joyed making the journey with her; he also said that 
the affair would be remunerative. The girl thought 
he had looked pained when she urged him to go alone, 
and he had turned away without giving her an an- 
swer. She was thinking of this as she stood looking 
at the flower border, where deep-tinted autumn blos- 
soms had taken the place of paler petalled flowers. 
If Michael loved her, and she supposed he did, though 
certainly for some days past his manner had been 
cold and uncertain — still, if he loved her she must 
have some influence with him. Why then should 
she not use this influence, and persuade him to go 
away? She was still so honest that she flushed at 
the consciousness that this persuasion must neces- 
sarily be deceitful ; but she could not help that. Her 
one overmastering idea was to free herself, to escape 
this daily visit, which was rapidly becoming intoler- 
able to her. When Michael was safe in Burgundy, 
and she had no personal explanations to shrink from, 
she determined to write to him and tell him all the 
truth. She hoped that he w^uld then voluntarily 
give her up. She would not allow herself to see that 
she might have made this appeal sooner. The very 
thought of his face stiffened into sternness by his 
contempt of her conduct had made a coward of the 
once brave girl. 

The doctor’s words had shown her she had no time 
to lose. She also knew that Clifford’s client was 
urgent ; she had only to persuade her husband to go 


APPLEDOBE FAP3L 


m 

abroad without further delay, so that her father 
might be strong enough to leave Appledore when 
Michael came back from France. There could be no 
deceit, she thought, in keeping the doctor’s opinion 
to herself. 

Since his father-in-law had been pronounced better 
Michael had slept in Purley. Ruth’s increasing 
hardness and avoidance made him too unhappy. He 
resolved to see as little of her as possible ; for under 
present circumstances their intercourse had become 
painfully strained. He had lately come over to Ap- 
pledore for an hour or so in the afternoon, when 
Ruth was likely to be out walking. To-day her 
reverie after the doctor’s visit had delayed her, and 
she was going out of the gate when Cilftord rode 
down the lane. 

He got off his horse and walked beside her. 

Don’t let me stop your walk,” he said; for in 
pursuance of her plan she had turned to go in-doors ; 

I want to see your father. I met Buchan ; he gives 
a very good report indeed.” 

fancy Dr. Buchan speaks as he wishes,” she 
said coldly. ‘‘ I am sure my father is not fit to be 
moved.” 

He looked searchingly at her, but she would not 
even smile. He thought he had never seen her look 
so hard. She was really angry with herself, for she 
knew that this was not the way to influence Michael ; 
and yet if she smiled he might altogether mistake 
her meaning. 

‘‘ Good-by, for the present,” he said gravely. “ Go 
and take your walk. I will talk to you when you 
come in; I will stay a little later on purpose.” 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


233 


Instead of turning away, to his surprise she put 
her hand lightly on his arm. The touch thrilled him 
with a feeling of yearning tenderness. Had he been 
mistaken, and was her reserve with him only the 
shyness natural in the unusual state in which she 
found herself? But he had received too many rebuffs 
from her of late to be completely reassured by this 
advance, and as he listened he congratulated himself 
on his reticence. 

I want to talk to you.” Her voice sounded timid, 
and he thought her smile was forced ; it wanted the 
lovely glow he so well remembered. I was think- 
ing, Is not this a good time for you to take that 
French journey you talked of? You could leave us 
now without any anxiety, and my father would be 
able to move by the time you came back. It would” 
— she began to stammer — it would shorten the wait- 
ing for you.” 

When she had ended her eyes fell under his, and 
still clinging almost desperately to his new theory of 
her extreme timidity he gently took her hand and 
pressed it. 

I will think it over. Sweetheart,” he said. When 
you come back you shall find that I have settled 
everything with your father, and then if you don’t 
approve we must alter plans to please you. Is my 
darling satisfied? ” 

She nodded and turned quickly away; the fondness 
of his tone had irritated her, and she could hardly 
help frowning. He, on the contrary, stood looking 
after her in a blissful state of surprise at his own 
blindness. He waited, looking after her till she was 
out of sight before he went in to see Philip Bryant. 


234 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


Michael warmly congratulated the invalid on the 
report of the doctor. 

“I fancy before long,” he said, “I shall be wel- 
coming you to Purley.” 

Bryant shook his head wearily. “ The doctor may 
be right, Michael, but I am sadly weak. I feel as if 
any change would be too much for me. So short 
a time as I have left, too ! At my age it seems a 

pity ” He stopped, with an imploring look at his 

companion. 

Michael understood, but he thought this putting 
off might go on for months; he thought, too, that 
his friend would certainly be benefited by the change, 
if he could only bring himself to consent to the 
wrench of leaving his old home. It was difficult to 
avoid wounding him, yet Clifford knew there was no 
one else who could really influence Philip Bryant on 
this subject as well as he could. 

“The difficulty is,” he said, “whether we can get 
that fellow Chapman to wait. He grumbles at the 
delay ; but that does not signify, after all, if you are 
not up to making the change.” 

Bryant was lying outside his bed, propped up by 
pillows; his head sank back among them, and he 
was silent a few minutes. 

“ Do you mean, ” he said very sadly, “ that my ill- 
ness will have lost you the tenant you had found for 
Appledore? ” 

Clifford smiled, and tried to speak reassuringly. 

“He wants a little smoothing down, I fancy. 
Perhaps if I could fix a definite time he would wait ; 
but any way, dear old fellow, you must not worry 
about it. I shall probably find some one else, or faih 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


235 


ing that I may come to some arrangement with your 
landlord; you must leave that to me. You know,” 
he added, with a bright smile, I consider you my 
client in this matter.” 

Bryant raised his head and looked at him earnestly. 

“I know one thing,” he said, “and that is that 
you are the best friend a ruined man ever had ; and 
I pray that God may bless you for your goodness. I 
will not be a hindrance to you, Michael ; you ought 
long ago to have taken your wife home. Hardly any 
other man would have spared her so long. Why, you 
might have left me with a nurse, and I could not 
have had a word against it ! ” 

He paused, and a look of weariness showed in his 
eyes. 

“You must not talk any more just now,” Michael 
said. “You and Ruth shall settle it when you are 
able; you shall not be hurried, let the doctor say 
what he will ! ” 

Bryant was looking anxious. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


The dreaded dull fortnight was over at the manor- 
house. Mr. Bevington had come back, and the house 
was full of visitors. Lady Emily was radiant, the 
life of the party, in spite of the youth and extreme 
attractiveness of two of the other ladies. 

To-night, when Mrs. Bevington was having a con- 
fidential chat with her cousin in Lady Emily’s room, 
she complimented her on this subject. 

am so sorry you talk of leaving,” she said. 
“We shall all miss you dreadfully. As to Reggy, I 
do not see who there will be left for him to talk to. 
He says you are delightful ; you have no caprices, 
and you are so sympathetic.” 

Lady Emily, who had risen ta put back a miniature 
she had been examining, made her cousin a low 
courtesy. 

“ I feel honored, but do you think I am a whole- 
some taste for Reggy, Rosamond? If you want him 
later on to appreciate Clara Stretton you should get 
him to cultivate Georgina Sneyd or Mrs. Courthope ; 
they are both so handsome, and, what is also to the 
point, so extremely correct.” 

“ He says they don’t amuse him. Don’t you think 
all men, old or young, like amusement when they 
can get it? ” 

“ Of course they do ! The poor things depend on 
us. By the way, is it not a mistake to ask such a 
236 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


2B7 


beautiful creature as Mrs. Courthope on a visit with 
her husband? ” 

“ I do not see how I could help myself ; they have 
only been married a year. ” 

Lady Emily shook her head at her cousin. 

“You are so clever, Rosamond, that you know 
perfectly well how to make use of opportunities. 
You might have waited to ask them till it was close 
on the 12th. I find that the husband is devoted to 
grouse-shooting. Can you not persuade her to stay 
ou ? Reggy will find her a far more lively companion 
when the husband is off guard.” 

Mrs. Bevington tried to look grave ; she ended by 
smiling. 

“ Georgina Sneyd has asked to stay on a week by 
herself,” she said, “but she and her hu^and are 
still such lovers that she will be probably even less 
amusing in his absence than she is now.” 

Her cousin laughed. 

“Remember, dear, the old motto scratched by a 
king on a pane of glass,” she said gayly. “My ex- 
perience tells me that women vary according to 
circumstances. I try to keep Reggy amused to pre- 
vent him from maundering about his Dulcinea. He 
has looked dolefully dismal ever since he heard of 
the marriage. My only wonder is that he has not 
gone off to see her. If you want to prevent this, get 
rid of the honorable Mostyn Courthope for a week or 
so. I promise you that Reggy will quickly console 
himself for my desertion. The farmer’s daughter 
cannot be so lovely as this young creature is, and 
how exquisitely she dresses, or I should say is dressed ; 
for that French maid of hers is the deftest, cleverest 


238 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


looking woman I have seen for many a day. I should 
try to get her, but I could not hope to top Mrs. Court- 
hope’s wages. Poor child ! how can she help being 
dull? She must have found out long ago that her 
husband is made of money and nothing else.” 

Has there been any talk between you and Peggy 
about that affair? ” 

“ No,” her cousin said dryly, “ and yet I assure you 
I have tried to sound him. He seems to shy like a 
nervous horse when we get near the subject. At 
dinner to-day he said something, however, that made 
me hopeful. If you can manage to pair him off with 
me to-morrow, I think the ice may be finally broken 
between us.” 

“ Do try, dear ! ” Mrs. Bevington kissed her affec- 
tionately. “You can say so much more than I can, 
because jou are not his mother, and because you 
have not any sore feeling on the subject. I envy 
you your excellent temper, Emily; you never seem 
to take anything to heart.” 

“I am a philosopher,” her cousin answered; “not 
about heat or cold or discomfort; those are things 
which I do not choose to bear, so I take means to 
avoid them. I never, as you know, winter in Eng- 
land, but I take good care to be provided with 
English comforts abroad. As a philosopher, I see 
that I cannot rule the universe, and I should be very 
sorry if I had the trouble of doing so. I accept things 
as they come, and get the best out of everything.” 

Mrs. Bevington was looking pensive. 

“I am trying to see,” she said, “how your philos- 
ophy would have helped you in this affair of Peggy’s, 
supposing you had been his mother? ” 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


239 


Lady Emily held up both her long, slender hands. 

‘^Heaven forbid such a position, my dear Rosa- 
mond! The one accident of my life for which I 
thank Providence is that I have been spared the tor- 
ment of a child. No philosophy can cope with the 
chaos a child creates in its mother’s peace. A child 
makes life from its first beginning a continued 
pain. You know it does, though you would never 
own it.” 

Ah ! but, my dear, you leave out the compensa- 
tions.” 

What are they? A few baby kisses, perhaps a 
few school or college successes, though these are safe 
to be blotted out by the bills you are called on to pay 
for your son’s extravagances. After that your life 
is a continual martyrdom; you are reduced to the 
condition of a shuttlecock between son and husband, 
even when your son is as well-behaved and nice as 
Reggy is ; and daughters are worse — there is so much 
more daily friction. No, to the last day of my life I 
shall continue to thank Heaven that it has spared 
me such a domestic infliction as a child.” 

Mrs. Bevington knew that she was no match for 
her cousin when Lady Emily aired a theory ; 'she had 
a way of giving her ideas vent as tljey came — just to 
hear how they sounded — though at the moment she 
believed herself to be in earnest. Her cousin there- 
fore bent her head silently, and made no effort to 
contradict her. 

‘^If I cannot persuade you to stay,” she said gen- 
tly, I wish you could persuade Reggy to go with 
the other men to Scotland; it would give him a 
change of scene and of ideas, and — and it would take 


240 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


him out of Marchshire. Now his father is at home 
I can do without him.” 

She spoke sorrowfully, and her cousin knew how 
happy her son’s mere presence made this devoted 
mother. 

“I will try,” Lady Emily said, “but I am not 
hopeful of success. I am not quite sure that it would 
not be better to let Reggy cure himself in his own 
way. Well, good-night, dear! It is unconscionably 
late, and you ought to be in bed.” 

When her cousin had left her. Lady Emily laughed. 
It seemed to her that far too much fuss had been 
made about Reggy’s fancy. It would be better for 
him to end it his own way. If he were to go and 
see the newly-married Dulcinea she might perhaps 
snub him, and so effectually cool his ardor ; or, again, 
she might listen to him and allow him to visit her, 
in which case the husband would probably horsewhip 
him ; either way would settle what was a very nat- 
ural fancy on the young fellow’s part, but as the 
affair evidently worried his mother, the sooner a cure 
could be found for it the better, for the sake of her 
cousin’s peace. 

“ If I had fully appreciated the comfort of peace in 
poor Walton’s time,” his widow thought, as her 
maid brushed her long hair, plentifully streaked with 
gray, “ we should both have led easier lives. Peace 
is worth having at any price.” 

An excursion had been planned to visit the ruins 
of a famous abbey, and the weather next day was so 
bright and beautiful that at breakfast the expedition 
was decided on. 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


U1 


Mrs. Bevington and three of her guests were to 
drive ; the gentlemen agreed to walk, for the sake 
of a celebrated view from the ridge of lofty downs 
above the road. 

Lady Emily was proud of her walking powers, 
and she and Reggy soon paired off and allowed the 
others to precede them. 

“This is our last walk,” she said. “I am really 
sorry to go.” 

“Are you? ” he stared at her in surprise. “It is 
nice of you to say so. My wonder is that you have 
managed to stay so long in such a dull hole as Bev- 
ington. I, for one, have sometimes felt inclined to 
put an end to myself more than once this year.” 

“You, my dear fellow! I should have thought 
you a very happy-minded person.” 

“You are chaffing; you know better than that. 
Just consider the vexing things that have happened 
to me this year I ” 

“ You mean your godfather’s marriage? Yes, that 
was a disappointment; but, Reggy, such a man as 
you are can always mend his fortunes by marriage — 
that is, if he wishes to do so.” 

He looked keenly at her. “ Surely you know that 
I was engaged, and that it is broken off? ” 

“ I heard something of the sort, and it puzzled me. 
I fancied you must know that if you choose to perse- 
vere no girl of taste will persist in refusing to be 
your wife. Perhaps you were not devoted enough 
to jour fiancee. Was that it? ” 

The path along which they walked on the top of 
the wooded ridge was bordered on either side by tall 
16 


242 


APPLEDOEE FAEM. 


grasses, and the young man flicked these angrily 
with his stick, though at his companion’s first words 
he had flushed with pleasure. 

‘‘ I dare say I seemed cold ; I am not fond of sham- 
ming. That’s why I will not go up to the moors 
with Mostyn Courthope; I can’t stand the fellow, 
and he would soon spot it if we were all day together.” 

Lady Emily waited a few minutes ; then she said, 
“ Why could you not devote yourself to Miss Stret- 
ton? Don’t think me impertinent, my dear fellow ! 
You see, I have known you so long that I take lib- 
erties.” 

His small, bright eyes narrowed to mere slits as 
he looked at her. 

‘^You want me to be frank with you,” he said, 
‘^and yet you are not frank with me. You know 
why I could not get fond of Clara.” 

She looked fully at him; there was a touch of 
womanly dignity in her tone as she answered : 

“ I hoped we were real friends. I care so much 
for you, Reggy, that I put full trust in you. For 
instance, just now you said that your reason for not 
going to the moors is that you dislike your proposed 
companion” [he winced under her steady gaze], “and 
I implicitly believed you. Your mother perhaps tells 
me more than she tells others, but she is extremely 
reticent. There was a certain marriage announced 
in a local paper, and I gathered from her that you 
knew the Miss — Miss, what was her name that was 
married? ” 

“Miss Bryant,” he said sternly, “the most beau- 
tiful creature a man ever loved ; and understand me, 
cousin, she is as good as she is beautiful.” 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


243 


Lady Emily’s face never showed any emotion, 
unless indeed she was seriously displeased ; but the 
young fellow felt that his assurance was needful. 
He knew by a kind of instinct that his companion 
would be disposed to speak slightingly of Ruth. 

Ah ! ” she said, those country girls often have 
wonderful complexions.” 

“ I tell you she is thoroughly beautiful ; she would 
be considered a beauty even in London. She’s the 
best girl a man could find. If I had been a free man 
I would have married her.” 

“ Really ! I suppose there is no saying how much 
education and association and all that sort of thing 
will do for a girl. I should like to have seen your 
Ruth,” she said in an interested tone. 

“Would you?” his eyes sparkled. “If I could 
only have known that when you first came here it 
might have been possible to take you over to Apple- 
dore. Now it is too late : she has married a man she 
does not care for, just for her father’s sake;” he gave 
a sort of groan and relapsed into silence. His cousin 
walked on beside him, outwardly grave, but sceretly 
delighted with his confidence. 

“ Poor dear Reggy ! ” she said in a low voice ; “ I 
wish I had known sooner ! ” 

“And I wish,” he burst out impetuously, “that 
my mother were more like you. I don’t want to find 
fault with my mother — she is admirable ; but on this 
point she is entirely out of sympathy with my feel- 
ings. I believe she thinks Miss Bryant’s marriage 
a Godsend, judging by the way she told me of it.” 

Another pause ; then Lady Emily said very softly : 

“ I have been thinking, Reggy, perhaps I hardly 


244 


APPLEDOBE FAPM, 


understand ; but is your position altered by this mar- 
riage? If you felt that you were unable to marry her, 
and you think that she still loves you better than she 
loves her husband, it seems to me that the situation 
remains really the same. I should say that a mar- 
ried woman who no longer cares for her husband is 
easier to win than an unmarried girl is. Ah ! look, 
Reggy; that is surely your father beckoning to us.” 

Reggy looked, but he could only see a stalwart 
countryman coming toward them — a man half as big 
again as the owner of Bevington Manor. But the 
young feUow took his companion’s hint and walked 
faster. He wanted to join the others, so that he 
might get away by himself and think over Lady 
Emily’s words. 

“Look!” she said presently; “I told you they 
would be waiting for us.” 

Mr. Bevington and his companions were now in 
sight, but they did not seem to be impatient ; they 
were all smoking. Two of them sat on a felled tree- 
trunk ; the others were leaning against a five-barred 
gate. The top of the 'ridge was bare, and the eye 
commanded from this spot a far-stretching view of 
hill and dale, of green hills, sometimes purple with 
ling, sometimes golden with gorse blossoms; these 
were varied by a harsher prospect of rugged lime- 
stone crags, showing bare gray shoulders through a 
sparse covering of turf. There were valleys, too, 
their course indicated by a veil of blue mist which 
hinted the presence of a brook or rivulet below. On 
some of the hills the dull green of August foliage 
was contrasted by the rich and bluer tint of the 
pines. Here and there, sometimes rather near, but 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


245 


more often in extreme distance, a long-sighted ob- 
server could trace blots, brown and red and white 
blots, that told of villages and townships far away. 
There rested over one of these blots a gray cloud, and 
as Reggy and his companion came up Mr. Mostyn 
Courthope took his cigar from between his lips and 
said: 

Do you see that smoke yonder? That’s Purley.” 

Lady Emily looked quickly at her companion; he 
had turned away. Mr. Sneyd offered Lady Emily a 
cigarette, and she began to smoke with the others, 
seating herself on the felled trunk. 

“ This sort of thing does one good,” she said; “the 
air is magnificent up here. ” 

Reginald Bevington had gone on away from every 
one; be felt utterly miserable, as he looked at the 
gray, far-off blur and pictured to himself that Ruth 
probably was sorrowing at this moment in her Purley 
home over her love for him, and was longing for his 
presence. 

Why did he not go and see her? She was mar- 
ried, but he was far more her friend than her hus- 
band was. If he had married Clara Stretton he 
should not have given up Ruth. Why, then, need 
she give him up because she had been forced by cir- 
cumstances to marry a man she did not love? Lady 
Emily’s words had opened his eyes to his own faint- 
heartedness. 

His mother had shown him the paper with the 
marriage in it, and there had been a painful scene 
between them. He had left her angrily, telling her 
that she had spoiled the happiness of his life, and 
since then the mother and son had scarcely spoken. 


246 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


Reginald felt unhappy, and he knew that his mother 
was wretched ; but he could not set matters straight. 
He knew she wanted him to say he had given up his 
love for Ruth. He had been very sullen and very 
miserable, but till to-day he had not had any definite 
hope or plan for the future. Ruth was so good, so 
high-minded, he dared not risk offending her when 
he remembered how she had looked when they last 
parted. But now Lady Emil^^’s words had enlight- 
ened him. A clever woman was safe to understand 
other women better than a man could. He saw that 
Ruth was now no longer a timid, scrupulous girl: 
she was a woman who had become the wife of one 
man while she still loved another ; and as he called 
up the looks that had assured him of her love, he felt 
a longing to fly then and there over the wide vista 
of hill and dale, of wood and stream, that divided 
them, and clasp his darling to his heart. 

The sound of voices behind came as a warning 
that his companions were again on their feet; it 
brought back, too, the trammels in which he lived, 
and made him conscious of a sudden shock. 

He told himself he could not injure Ruth ; he loved 
her too dearly. He hated and despised Michael 
Clifford, who must surely have guessed the truth 
about his wife ; yet when he thought of Ruth as she 
might have been in the midst of debt and poverty, 
he rejoiced that she was safe from the consequences 
of her father’s troubles. He dared not tempt her to 
give up her position for his sake, and therefore he 
had better not try to see her. The resolution did 
him good ; by the time they reached the ruins he had 
recovered himself. He went up to his mother and 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


247 


talked to her, and put her into the carriage when it 
was time to start homeward ; and in the walk home 
he was as gay as Lady Emily herself. He told him- 
self he should not forecast. Who could say what 
life held for him? It was better to drift along with 
the tide and see what happened. 

Going home they walked across the downs six 
abreast, taking a shorter way than that by which 
they had come. The young man’s change of man- 
ner had made his cousin curious, but he did not give 
her a chance of asking him questions. At parting 
next day she kept his hand a moment in hers, when 
he had put her in the carriage which was to drive 
her to the great house she was going to visit. 

Write to me, Eeggy,” she said affectionately, as 
she fixed her fine eyes on his. “ I am impatient to 
hear that you have seen your beautiful Ruth. You 
certainly ought to make sure that she is happy, or 
she will not consider you a true friend. Good-by ! ” 
All right ! ” he said. Good-by ! ” 

She kissed her fingers to him and then leaned back 
in the carriage as it rolled away and laughed softly 
to herself. 

“There’s no danger in giving such advice to him; 
he is far too great a muff to venture on making love 
to a married woman. Perhaps under his mother’s 
wing he may do a little decorous flirtation with that 
lovely Mary Courthope. 'As to the farmer’s daugh- 
ter, he knows it was only my joke.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


It seemed to Ruth as she went up the lane that 
Michael was disposed to listen to her suggestion 
about the journey to France. She had only to perse- 
vere and she should persuade him to go. She there- 
fore shortened her walk, and gave up the visit she 
had meant to pay Lucy Voce and little George. The 
boy’s quaint, childish talk was always an amusement 
to her, even in these sad days ; but she was impa- 
tient to return to the charge, and she saw that she 
could not get back to Appledore in time for a talk 
with Michael if she went on to Little Marshfield. 

Her determination to succeed had recalled her old 
daring, and she looked singularly cheerful on her 
return when she approached the gate. 

Michael heard the click as she raised the latch ; he 
came out to meet her. 

“You see I have not been long,” she said; she 
passed him and went into the parlor. Her heart 
beat a little more quickly when looking at him ; she 
saw what she called his sentimental expression in 
his eyes, but she did not give him time for any lov- 
ing words. 

“Have you been thinking over your journey?” 
she said abruptly, and then, smiling : “ It seems such 
a good time for you to go now, does it not? ” 

She stood facing him, and she felt that he had 
come closer to her while she spoke. Now he sud- 
248 


APPLEDOBE FARM. 


249 


denly, and she thought masterfully, took both her 
hands. 

have a better plan than that, my darling. 
Your father is willing to move whenever we wish, 
so that you and I have only to fix the day for your 
coming home to me, my own precious wife.” He 
pressed her hands warmly, while Ruth felt every 
moment more cold and trembling, as she stood like 
a statue, unable to move or even to look up. 

“Sit down, darling,” he said. “What a stupid 
fellow I am, to keep you standing after your walk ! ” 
Then, as he placed himself beside her on the sofa and 
slipped his arm round her waist, he murmured in a 
low tone : “ I suppose I can hardly think, I am so 
happy. It is such a joy, my sweet girl, to think of 
your being so soon at Purley.” 

She did not draw herself away ; she was nerving 
herself for one more effort. 

“ I really don’t think father knows how weak he 
is, but I know,” she said earnestly. “To move him 
now may undo all that he has gained ; it would be 
wrong and selfish to run such a risk.” 

If she could have looked into his eyes and smiled 
at him perhaps he might have yielded; but her 
strained manner, her nervous shrinking from his 
arm, which still lay round her waist, opened Mi- 
chael’s eyes to a glimpse of the truth. There seemed 
to him something behind her words — something more 
like aversion than the blushing, modest timidity he 
had fondly pictured while he waited for her; her 
attitude was hard and unloving, and the hardness 
seemed every moment to increase. 

It was increasing. Ruth saw as in a fiash that 


850 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


she had been of set purpose trying to act a lie, so 
that she might free herself from her most unwelcome 
husband. As she saw it she suddenly flung her pur- 
pose from her; she could not revert to the subject of 
the French journey ; that was only a pitiful subterfuge. 

Michael took his arm away ; rising, he stood before 
her. She dared not look up, but she longed to know 
whether he was angry with her. 

“ To-day is Monday,” he said in a dull, level tone, 
as if only the matter in hand was in his mind ; “I 
gathered from the doctor that your father might 
be safely moved next Thursday. Will that day suit 
your arrangements? ” 

She looked up now. He thought her eyes had a 
wild expression as they strayed round the room. He 
waited for her to speak ; then, as her silence contin- 
ued, a frown settled on his face. 

“As to that journey to France,” he said in a hard 
voice, “ there is no use in proposing it to me. Is it 
likely that I could desert you in that way? ” 

Her lip quivered, but she did not speak. Michael 
left her and walked away. Such a storm of anger 
had mastered him that he was ashamed of his own 
feelings. He reminded himself, however, that he 
had promised Philip Bryant to settle the time for 
leaving Appledore. 

“ Shall we say Thursday, or will you leave it till 
next week? Your father said the sooner the better, 
and Dr. Buchan used almost the same words as we 
parted.” 

The strain had become too intense; it suddenly 
snapped. Ruth felt desperate and reckless ; this was 
her last chance of escape. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


251 


She rose and looked at Michael ; she flung away 
any attempt at deceit ; she had suddenly become bold 
and careless as to what he might think, though she 
knew that what she had to say must irritate him 
beyond endurance. 

You want us to leave Appledore because of the 
new tenant. Well, then, we can go any day you 
like; but not to Purley. You must not ask me to 
live there with you; I cannot do it; I will not.” 

He stepped forward and grasped her arm. 

‘AVhat do you mean?” he said sternly. “You 
will not? You are my wife. What do you mean, 
Ruth? ” 

No one had ever spoken to Ruth in so masterful a 
tone; it roused her spirit to yet more active rebellion. 
She raised her head and returned his stern look, but 
she was far more composed than he was ; she had 
already gone through this scene in anticipation, 
while he was taken by surprise. 

“I mean,” she said slowly, but with cold decision, 
“ that I cannot do my duty as your wife ; that I have 
no love to give you. ” She paused ; she wanted him 
to question her, but her manner had fllled him with 
horror ; he hung breathlessly on her words. 

The silence continued till her longing for freedom 
overcame all scruples, all thought for any feeling 
besides her own. 

“ I cannot go with you,” she said in a high, stub- 
born tone; “ I love another man.” 

When she had said it her courage left her; she 
looked at him in terror. He remained silent; her 
words did not seem to affect him; he was really stu- 
pefled. He had not at first believed that she was 


252 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


speaking the truth. He could not believe that this 
candid, upright girl, on whose honor he would have 
wagered his own, could have spread such a snare 
for him. 

At last he said hoarsely : 

Are you in earnest? My God! if you are, you 
are as bad a woman as I have ever known. Are 
you in earnest? Answer me! ” he said fiercely. 

She bent her head, but she could not steady her 
voice to speak. 

“ Why have I not heard this before? ” he went on. 

How dared you marry me? How dared you swear 
before God to be my true and loving wife, when you 
knew it was a black falsehood? What had I done 
to you, Ruth” [his tone softened for a moment], 
“ that you should wrong me like this? Why did you 
not tell me this wretched story at starting? ” 

Standing there, her eyes bent on the ground, she 
had been asking herself the same question. Now, 
as she looked up and saw the honest dignity that 
dominated the pain in his face, a strange revulsion 
passed over Ruth. She and Michael seemed to 
change places; it was she who had injured him. 
She had cheated him ; she had even lied to gain her 
ends. 

She longed to kneel down and ask his forgiveness, 
but her shame was too great. 

He kept himself from looking at her. 

“You can at least explain,” he said. 

“ I have no excuse to offer,” she said humbly. “ I 
have no hope that this other person, that Mr. Bev- 
ington will ever think of me again. It has been all 
my own fault.” She paused, then she added: ‘‘It 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


253 


would have been worse to let you go on thinking I 
had any love to give you.” 

He was too angry to be touched by her submission ; 
perhaps, for the time, his anger deepened because he 
could not wreak it on her, when she owned her con- 
duct to be without excuse. She did not ask to be 
forgiven ; she felt herself to be too guilty. She only 
longed to get away and hide herself from Michael’s 
contempt. She stood before him with bent head and 
clasped hands, waiting for his decision. 

I cannot talk to you now; I must think.” Then, 
as an afterthought came to him, he added, ‘^As I 
am married to you there are one or two questions I 
had better ask at once.” He spoke with such sting- 
ing bitterness that she clasped her hands together 
with a look of keen suffering. Was there ever any 
engagement between you and this — this — gentleman, 
as you, I presume, call him? I call him a scoundrel.” 

“I thought I was engaged to him; we wrote to 
one another as if we were engaged, and he came 
three times to see me, that was all.” Her calmness 
surprised him as she began, but Ruth felt as if she 
were talking of some one else, the Ruth who had met 
Reginald Bevington in the Mill Glen was so far away 
from her guilty self. Her last words brought back 
her companion’s sternness. 

‘^All!” he muttered between his clenched teeth. 
He waited a minute, then, May I ask you how this 
intercourse was broken off?” His face darkened. 
“Has he seen you since* you accepted my proposal?” 

She raised her head with a momentary return of 
self-respect. 

“I am not so bad as you think,” she said. “The 


254 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


last time he came I — I saw he did not mean to many 
me, and I said he must not see me again. It is bet- 
ter that we should never meet, but — but — ” [she cov- 
ered her face with her hands], “ I can’t forget him ; I 
cannot,” she sobbed. 

Michael longed to be face to face with Bevington, 
and to horsewhip him as long as he could stand over 
him. He turned his back on Ruth. She was, he 
believed, innocent; but it outraged him to see her 
crying for a man who would have ruined her if he 
had had the chance ; for that was what was meant, 
he thought. He walked up and down the long room, 
trying to calm himself, while Ruth stood where he 
had left her. She felt bound to stay there till she 
learned whether she was free, or what was going to 
happen. After a while he stood still, but he did not 
go near her. 

“I will see you to-morrow, if I can,” he said; “if 
not to-morrow, next day. I must plan out what is 
to be done ; but mind this, not a word of it to your 
father. I shall plan it so that it will seem to be my 
doing, not yours.” He stopped, then he went on 
more harshly : “ It will not be seeming, either ; it is 
my doing. You had a strange opinion of me if you 
thought I would take for my wife a girl who belongs 
to another man.” 

She felt that he was unjust; she had said that all 
was over between her and Mr. Bevington ; but she 
knew she had so wronged Michael Clifford that she 
was willing to let him say Anything he chose. She 
had fully deserved his contempt. 

He paused when he reached the door, turned round 
and looked at her. 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


255 


“It beats belief/’ he seemed to be talking to him- 
self, “ that a creature can look so pure, so true, and 
yet be so deceitful. You have ruined both our lives, 
but I will not have your poor father made more un- 
happy than he must be at leaving his old home. He 
shall not be told the truth. You can say to him that 
no time is yet settled between us for leaving this 
place.” 

He bent his head and went out of the room, with- 
out any further leave-taking. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


It was fortunate for Michael Clifford that he had 
much practical work to accomplish in a short time. 
He had small opportunity for the consideration of 
his own feelings. Indeed, had this not been so, 
Michael would have turned from contemplating 
them ; his nature was too strong for indulgence in 
self-pity. The only indulgence of feeling he now 
permitted himself was an intense indignation against 
young Bevington and against Ruth. 

With his usual prompt decision he settled on a 
plan which would separate him from his wife and 
yet avoid any open scandal. Ruth and her father 
should go quietly to the little seaside place where the 
honeymoon was to have begun, and he should account 
for her absence from Purley by the fact of. building 
a couple of additional rooms to his house in Broad 
Street. He had wished to do this before he married, 
but the shortness of his engagement had made it 
impracticable. The house was so old that this addi- 
tion of new brickwork would probably occasion 
unlooked for and lengthy repairs to the original 
fabric — the longer the better, he thought, for him 
and for his shattered hopes. He should not be much 
in Purley, but he settled that his office should not be 
interfered with. There were several distant journeys 
he had from time to time been asked to take, among 
them the talked of expedition to Burgundy — singu- 
356 


APPLEDORE FARM. 257 

larly distasteful now, because it called up a memory 
of Ruth’s deceit. 

He thought, however, that it would be a good be- 
ginning, and the fact of his taking so long a journey 
would account for his leaving his wife and her father 
to establish themselves by the seaside. Michael 
Clifford did not really value public opinion, but he 
had lived the greater part of his life in a small coun- 
try town, and he was therefore well aware of the 
ravening appetite for gossip in the provincial mind. 
He despised it; he had often told his sister when 
they two were safe from eaves-droppers that the Pur- 
ley people likened themselves to pigs by the greedi- 
ness of their curiosity concerning their neighbors’ 
affairs. But in spite of his contempt for this mind- 
less folly, he would not yield a shred of the tragedy 
that had developed in the place of his own expected 
happiness to the tender mercies of his fellow towns- 
folk. He would not even trust Dr. Buchan, but 
gravely consulted him about the suitability of Dol- 
mouth as a temporary home for Mr. Bryant till the 
house in Broad Street should be again fit for habi- 
tation. 

Dr. Buchan looked inquisitive, but Michael’s 
steady gaze overawed even his coolness. The doctor 
tried to point out that Mrs. Voce could have taken 
care of Mr. Bryant while Ruth accompanied her hus- 
band on the various journeys he had spoken of. 

“I thought you told me. Doctor,” Michael said 
gravely, that my dear old friend has at longest only 
a few months before him, unless indeed he should 
gain a great deal more strength before winter? ” 

Dr. Buchan bent his head. 

17 


258 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


“That is my opinion, my deliberate opinion,” he 
said pompously; “but, my dear sir, I may err. We 
are all liable to error. Still, I ask myself how will it 
be with your wife? I understand and respect your 
wish not to part her from her father, but how will it 
be should her father be taken from her during your 
absence on one of these distant journeys — you — you 
contemplate? ” 

Having said this with more than ordinary pom- 
posity, the doctor raised his eyebrows, gave his short 
nose an upward tilt and pinched up his lips till they 
looked like a red screw-hole. 

Clifford gave a wary smile ; he admired the doc- 
tor’s tenacity, but he did not intend to reward it. 
He excused it, however, on the ground that every 
doctor has certain patients to whom a highly-spiced 
bit of news is far more welcome than a prescrip- 
tion. 

“ I shall take care to provide against such a mis- 
chance. Supposing that I am out of England, which 
I hope may not be the case, I shall arrange for my 
sister to come and stay with my wife at Dolmouth, or 
if this house should be finished they will come here.” 

This apparent frankness quieted the doctor’s sus- 
picions, and as he recalled the conversation on his 
way to see another patient he fancied that he himself 
had suggested Dolmouth as beneficial to Philip Bry- 
ant, and also as a desirable seclusion for so young 
and beautiful a wife in the absence of her husband. 

Michael had resolved not to confide his terrible 
secret to any one, and he therefore meant to write 
his instructions instead of going to Scotland to see 
Dorothy. He could easily baffle ordinary curiosity. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


259 


but he shrank from meeting his sister’s keen eyes ; 
he knew that he could not hide his sorrow from her 
sympathetic insight. He remembered her warning ; 
and at the time he had thought her jealous and prej- 
udiced, and had fancied himself wise! Yesterday 
he resolved before he had ridden a mile from Apple- 
dore that he would not see Ruth again. It was use- 
less, he thought, to expose himself to such a trial; 
the very sight of her would rob him of all self-control. 
He should probably reproach her ; he should certainly 
feel vehemently angry. In some ways, too, it might 
be better not to see Philip Bryant; he might suspect 
that all was not quite as it was said to be. In every 
way it was better to write. 

“ Letter- writing is a blessed invention,” he said 
sadly ; “ it so helps to soften much that would sound 
very cruel if it had to be spoken.” 

But while he thought this, his lip curled at his 
own weakness; he knew that his just anger against 
his wife burned as strongly as ever. Why, then, did 
he wish to spare her any of the trial she had brought 
on herself? He could not answer the question; he 
could only tell himself that it was better to keep away 
from Appledore. This want of directness was so 
entirely foreign to his nature that he only became 
still more restless and dissatisfied. He wrote both 
to Ruth and to Philip Bryant, and went out himself 
to post the letters. Then he sent for the best builder 
in Purley, went over the house with him, listened to 
his opinion and gave his instructions that all should 
be done as well and thoroughly as possible. He did 
not urge speed; he did not even name a date by 
which he wished the alterations to be completed. 


2G0 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


The next day found him at Dolmouth ; he wished 
to make sure that the lodgings he had chosen for the 
summer would be suited to an invalid when winter 
came. As yet Michael did not attempt to look for- 
ward; he so recoiled from the idea of having to 
spend his life with a woman who did not love him — a 
woman who had simply used him as a means of se- 
curing a home for lierself and for her father — that he 
found it impossible to look forward to a time when 
he might be called on to receive his wife in the old 
house in Broad Street. 

The owner of the Dolmouth lodging, Mrs. Rimell, 
was a woman of forbidding appearance ; her pale, 
sallow skin, seamed with wrinkles, was not beautified 
by the contrast afforded by her cap — a bit of real old 
lace, much blued in the washing, and surmounted by 
a bow and ends of violet satin ribbon. Two long 
lace cap-strings hung down in front on either side 
of a lean and very ugly throat. Her eyebrows, still 
brown, were drawn together in such a decided frown 
that Clifford thought she must be angry, while the 
poor woman was only so nervously conscious of her 
plainness and awkwardness that she longed to run 
away and hide herself. There was, however, a sour 
expression on her pale, flabby lips that indicated a 
dissatisfaction with the world in general, but which 
to a stranger seemed to be of special application. She 
said, however, that the gentleman was welcome to 
come in and see her cottage, and Michael thought 
her manner of speaking was more educated than 
either her appearance or her way of receiving an 
expected visitor. Before he left the cottage he had 
decided that the rooms were thoroughly satisfactory, 


APPLEDOBE FARM. 


261 


and that Mrs. Rimell was both honest and kind, 
though probably, he surmised, not especially easy to 
live with. 

He shrugged his shoulders as this thought came 
on his way back to the station. He knew that 
strangers always liked Philip Bryant; his manner 
was so extremely winning. As for Ruth, well, he 
had resolved as far as possible to banish her from 
his thoughts ; it was therefore useless to assure him- 
self that she was certain to fascinate the sour-looking 
lady. . 

He went home and wrote to Dorothy, and he bade 
her answer his letter in Paris. He said he should 
have left home before she received it. 

Then he made out a list of things to be sent to 
Dolmouth. He copied this list and sent the dupli- 
cate to Ruth, with formal but minute instructions for 
her journey. He had already put all business relat- 
ing to Appledore in charge of his friend Wood, the 
only witness of his ill-starred wedding. 

There still remained much to be done, but he went 
on from one thing to another with a determination 
and a thoroughness that would not allow bodily and 
mental fatigue a moment’s indulgence. At last all 
was done, and he felt free to start on his journey. 

He waited, however, till he heard from Ruth that 
she and her father were safe at Dolmouth. Her 
letter was as short and formal as his had been, but 
it expressed the writer’s thanks for the kind care he 
had taken for her comfort and for that of her father. 
Michael sighed with relief as he read; a load seemed 
lifted from his spirits. 

‘‘ Thank God,” he said ; I am once more free ! ” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


It was ebb-tide. The sea had gone out as far as 
possible from the semicircle of shingle that made a 
little bay, and it now lay as if sulking, in a long, 
gray, foam-specked roller, over which at intervals 
a solitary white gull darted and sometimes seemed 
to dip the point of its wing in the water. Behind 
the sullen gray sea was a mass of clouds, of which 
the dark lead-colored centre bulged forward, and 
seemed ready presently to burst over the dull ex- 
panse of sand stretched out between the sea and the 
semicircle of shingled beach. This shelved in three 
distinct terraces or steps up to a wind-swept meadow. 
Across this meadow a sandy path led to the back of 
Mrs. RimelTs cottage. 

The gate of the little garden, set in a hedge of 
tamarisk bushes, led on to the meadow; and Ruth 
could spend as much time as she chose beside the 
sea, without attracting notice by having to pass 
through the village. Bathing was over at Dolmouth. 
There was a much larger and wider sea-front at the 
end of two straggling lines of cottages that consti- 
tuted the village, where boats were drawn up on the 
beach and fishermen in oilskin hats and blue jerseys 
loafed in the sunshine. There was only one set of 
lodgings in the place besides Ruth’s cottage, and 
these others had been let and vacated early in the 
season. No fear of an intruder on her favorite haunt 
262 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


263 


disturbed Ruth as she sat on the lowest of the shelves, 
her feet resting on the sand that mingled with fine 
gravel, screened by constant friction of the water from 
the coarse shingle on which she sat. Her rich brown 
hair was blown out of its sculpturesque waves by the 
wind, which had brought color to her cheeks and a 
yet deeper glow than usual to her sweet, dark eyes. 
Her mouth, however, looked a trifie harder; it was 
still beautiful in its firm chiselling, but it looked less 
ready to curve into a merry smile than it had done 
in her happy days at Appledore. The perfect rest of 
this place and the bracing sea-air had, however, ben- 
efited the girl. At first she had been troubled by 
her father’s constant questions, and had found a 
difficulty in soothing his uneasiness. Fortunately 
he had not suspected the truth. The idea that tor- 
mented him was that this removal to the sea, as well 
as the enlargement of the house in Broad Street, were 
both sacrifices made on his behalf by his too generous 
friend. One of Ruth’s trials had been the having to 
listen to her father’s constant praises of her husband, 
and his congratulations on the treasure she possessed 
in Michael’s love. Almost every day Bryant had 
asked her when she expected a visit from Michael, 
but his confirmed optimism had after a time quieted 
Bryant’s misgivings. His returning health and 
strength helped him to the conclusion that probably 
this delay was the best thing that could have hap- 
pened with regard to the future happiness both of 
Michael and Ruth ; it would give them time to get 
used to one another, and would help his daughter to 
appreciate the good and lovable qualities of her 
husband. 


264 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


He could not, however, understand Michael’s ab- 
sence, or the need of the prolonged absences from 
home which now and again Michael spoke of when 
he wrote to his father-in-law. In these brief notes 
there was usually an enclosure for Ruth, but Bryant 
did not know that this enclosure simply contained 
the monthly payment which Michael sent to his wife 
with a request for acknowledgment, and an inquiry 
for her health and her father’s. 

It was certain that Ruth’s health and strength had 
benefited by the air of Dolmouth, and by the relief 
from pressing anxiety about her father’s illness; but 
the deepened consciousness of her own wrong-doing 
and of her utter dependence on a man to whom she 
could make no return had aged the girl. 

As she now sat, her eyes — sometimes brown, 
sometimes a greenish gray, according to the light 
that fell on them — fixed on the far-off, sullen sea, she 
looked very lovely ; but her expression had changed. 
The unexpected mobility of her face had been one of 
its charms. Now, though sweet and kind thoughts 
still glistened in her liquid eyes,, and at times curved 
her lovely lips in a passing smile, or the reflection of 
deeper, sadder feelings flitted over her face, as the 
shadow of a passing cloud falls on a bright landscape, 
the brilliant, saucy glances that once made her sweet 
face so bewitching, so irresistibly fascinating, had 
gone seemingly forever. Her movements even were 
slower than they used to be. She had told her father 
only this morning that she had suddenly become ten 
years older. Sometimes when Bryant asked her how 
soon she expected a letter from Michael her short 
answers roused his curiosity, and she found it so 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


265 


difficult to avoid a falsehood that she was glad to 
escape as soon as she could to her favorite haunt, the 
little lonely bay. Ruth loved to come here at ebb- 
tide. She had sat on the shingle this afternoon 
watching the dull, sad-colored water, and listening to 
its ever-lessening moan, watching the dip of the sea- 
gull’s wing, till the dreary monotony soothed the irri- 
tation which some words of her father’s had caused. 

He had been telling her how he longed for a 
grandchild — another little Ruth; ‘Hhe picture of 
yourself, though there can never be again such an- 
other little maid,” he had added. 

While he spoke the blood flew to Ruth’s milk- 
white skin in angry protest, dyeing the fair face till 
it even showed on her temples and among her hair. 
She snatched her hat and came out here ; and all this 
while she had little by little gained calm in gazing 
over the sea ; it was so infinite ! Her own feelings 
showed themselves weak and puny in the face of this 
mighty, over-mastering power. Then, after awhile, 
her thoughts went on to the Eternal Law which bade 
this ebb and flow be ceaseless. The sea obeyed the 
law of its being. What was she, then, that she 
should make her life a continued struggle against 
the fate that had married her to Michael Clifford? 
She started at a touch on her shoulder. 

A little boy stood beside her, a delicately made 
child of about four years old. His cheeks were rosy, 
and his sunny hair veiled bright, dark eyes ; but the 
hand he had put on Ruth’s shoulder was too tiny and 
fragile for childish health, and the small pair of legs 
above his black socks were too slender, though from 
the smallness of the bones they did not look skinny. 


266 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


There was, too, a wistful restlessness about him as 
he peered over her shoulder at Ruth. 

“ Why ! ” he exclaimed, “ what a time you have 
sat here quite still, doing nothing! Nurse saw you 
when I came out for my walk ; she saw you across 
the meadow. I wanted to come to you, but nurse 
scolded; she said; ‘You must not trouble the lady.’ 
Do I trouble you, dear? ” 

The pathetic ring in the thin, cracked voice went 
to Ruth’s heart; she slid her arm round the little 
fellow, drew him close to her, and kissed him over 
and over again. 

“You never trouble me, darling; you are my dear 
little comfort.” 

He wriggled himself out of her arms, so that he 
could see her face. 

“ Comfort ! ” he said wonderingly ; “ you don’t want 
comfort; you are well, and you don’t have to wear 
black frocks.” 

A cloud came over the bright, eager little face as 
he looked at his black clothes. Ruth knew that the 
child wore mourning for his mother, and that his 
father, the rector of the little parish, had been away 
for some months from ill health. 

She bent forward and tenderly kissed him. 

“Shall I call you my sunshine?” she said; “you 
are such a happy little fellow ! ” 

He danced about, and then began to speak so 
eagerly that the words came tumbling out one on top 
of the other, so that he stammered a little in getting 
them in order. 

“I — I’se not twite happy. When papa comes 
home, then I’ll be happy.” 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


267 


You have your uncle,” Ruth said. 

He danced away from her again, holding his hat 
with his tiny hand, for the wind was rising. Pres- 
ently he came back and stood in front of her. 

“ Did you mean Uncle Peter? ” he gave an incred- 
ulous look, screwed his small mouth, and began to 
whistle. I say, dear ” [he put his hand on Ruth’s 
shoulder], “donf tell nurse, you know; acoss/icsays 
he’s the best uncle ’at a little boy ever had; but 1 
think Uncle Peter’s a dunce.” 

Ruth laughed ; she knew the Reverend Peter Mould 
had in his earlier days taken a double first at Ox- 
ford, and that he was still a fellow of one of its most 
distinguished colleges. She had heard from Mrs. 
Rimell that he was too shy and reserved to be ex- 
pected to call on any one, but that the curate supplied 
this omission with regard to the poor people. 

A dunce, is he? I wonder what you mean by a 
dunce, Watty? Am I a dunce? ” 

^Wou! ” — he gave her a vehement hug, and stood 
leaning against her shoulder ; “ I should just say you 
wasn’t! Why, you knows everything, I ’spect — just 
like papa does. You knows how to pet and kiss me” 
[he gave her a tender little squeeze] ; you knows 
’musing stories. I love stories, I do. Why I b’lieve 
if we was in-doors you could do ‘ Ride a Cock-horse ’ 
and ‘ Going to Market ’ as well as papa does.” 

“Oh, yes!” said Ruth, laughing; “and I can do 
“Margery Daw.” 

Watty looked aggrieved. 

“ Look here ! ” he said. “ Last night I asked Uncle 
Peter if he could do ‘ This Little Pig Went to Mar- 
ket/ and he just looked up from his book and pushed 


S68 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


up his speckles and stared.” The little mimic’s face 
expressed such utter bewilderment that Ruth could 
not help laughing. Well, he did look so,” the child 
went on gravely ; and he said he didn’t know about 
pigs, but he would like to teach me to read for 
myself.” 

Watty made such a wry face that Ruth said, 
“ That was very kind of your uncle.” 

Her little friend stood upright and looked suspi- 
ciously at her. want to do what papa does,” he 
answered, after a minute’s thought. I heard him 
tell the schoolmistress ’at I was to wait till I was 
five.” 

‘^It will be nice for you to be able to read,” Ruth 
smiled at her little friend, who stood looking into her 
eyes as if he meant to read her thoughts. 

don’t know,” he said; ^‘you are going to be my 
wife; you said ‘yes’ when I asked you. Well, then, 
you can read, can’t you? A husband and a wife 
needn’t both read, you know.” He looked trium- 
phant, and then darted away from her on to the wet 
sand and came back with a spray of dried seaweed 
and held it out to her. 

“But, Watty,” she said, when she had kissed him 
for his present, “ I might be ill, like your papa, and 
then I should want you to read to me.” 

He looked perplexed and stood lost in thought; 
then he burst out eagerly: “I know. I’ll tell you; 
don’t never be ill — that’ll be the best way.” 

He put his arm round her neck, and she fondled 
the little delicate hand and kissed the child’s warm, 
flushed cheeks. 

“You are a darling,” she said; “you must come 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


269 


and see my father one of these days. Ask your uncle 
if you may come.” 

Why, of course I may. Why didn’t you ask me 
sooner? You live in a cottage, so you must be a 
villager; I know I may go and see villagers.” 

He flushed when he saw that she was laughing. 

I don’t think you are the same as the other vil- 
lagers ; you are a lady, and of course your papa is a 
gentleman ; but you must be villagers if you live in 
the village, mustn’t you? ” 

Ruth did not answer ; she sat wondering whether 
she and her father should live on for years in this 
quiet, lonely place, buried alive, as it were, from 
every one they had ever known. She had heard 
more than once from her aunt and from her cousin 
Peggy, but she had not answered their letters, which 
had been forwarded to her from Appledore. The 
girl had often wished to write to Sally Voce to in- 
quire what was happening at the old place, but she 
felt too much ashamed of her present position to run 
the risk of exposing it to Sally. She knew how 
inquisitive the woman was, and she might take it 
into her head to come over if this opening were 
given her. 

“ Why do you come here, dear ? ” The small cracked 
voice roused Ruth from a reverie. “ Why don’t you 
go to the big beach round the point? ” he nodded 
toward the right end of the bay; ^‘it’s more ’musing 
there, and you’d see Tom and Joe; they’re always 
on that beach when they don’t go out fishing. No- 
body never comes here.” 

“ That’s why I like it, darling. I like to have you 
and the sea all to myself.” 


270 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


Walter stood thinking; his ready wit for once had 
failed him. At last he burst out : 

“I say, what do you do when I don’t come? 
Doesn’t nobody come and talk to you? They can’t 
get round the point, nurse says, ’cept there’s spring- 
tides. Why, look! Do look! There’s a gemper 
coming round now.” 

Ruth looked where he pointed. 

Coming round a white mass of rock, almost tall 
enough to be called a cliff, that made the boundary 
of her little bay, she saw Reginald Bevington. Her 
first impulse was to take flight as a refuge from the 
intense longing she felt to see him, and the joy his 
mere presence gave her ; but she knew the thought 
was idle. Before she could possibly reach the meadow 
he would be beside her. She hesitated a moment as 
to whether she should send Watty away or keep him 
beside her, but reflection quickly warned her that the 
child would certainly tell his nurse all that he heard, 
and she did not put much confidence in Mr. Beving- 
ton’s self-control. She felt sure he would reproach 
her for her marriage. She must take care of her 
own reputation in Dolmouth. 

“We had better go home, dear Watty,” she said. 
“ My father will be looking for me, and I expect your 
nurse is waiting tea for you. Run away home, dar- 
ling, and ask your uncle if you may come and have 
tea with us to-morrow. ” 

Meanwhile Mr. Bevington was coming very slowly 
forward, picking his way over the fallen masses of 
rock that added to the natural barrier at the angle of 
the semicircle. Watty lingered; he was anxious to 
get a nearer view of the new arrival, a strange gen- 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


271 


tleman being rare at Dolmouth. Ruth abruptly rose ; 
she took the child’s tiny hand and led him up to the 
top of the beach. 

“ Let me see how fast you can run,” she said. “ I 
will come presently.” 

Watty went off at full speed, and seeing this Reg- 
inald Bevington mended his pace and came directly 
toward Ruth. She held up her hand in warning as 
she stood watching the child, and the young man 
went down toward the sand and flung himself on 
the beach. Watty stopped when he was half-way 
across the meadow and looked back ; he waved his 
cap and Ruth nodded and kissed her hand, and the 
child started afresh. He was soon a small black 
speck flying across the green meadow. 

When Watty was out of sight Ruth turned and 
came down the beach toward Mr. Bevington. 

His eyes had not left her ; he had been studying 
every line of her figure, and the outline of her lovely 
face, as she stood sideways against the full light 
looking after the boy. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


Reginald Bevington had finally determined that 
he would avoid Mrs. Clifford. There was no use, 
he thought, in exposing himself to such a trial. If 
he had been asked he could not have said why he 
was here to-day. A sudden impulse had seized him ; 
he had felt that he must see Ruth, and he had started 
for Appledore without regard to consequences. It 
may be that a letter received the day before from 
Lady Emily, in which she asked him for news of 
his beautiful friend, had helped to rekindle his pas- 
sion. He had just returned from abroad, and he 
found Bevington intolerably dull. It is certain that 
the shock of discovering that the Bryants no longer 
possessed Appledore, and that even John Bird was 
uncertain as to where they had gone, had greatly 
excited him. The longing to find himself once more 
beside Ruth became irresistible, and now that he saw 
her, lovelier, more blooming than ever, he could not 
realize that there was any barrier between them. 

He sprang up from the shingle and came toward 
her, smiling and holding out his hand. 

The girl was surprised ; she had expected an angry 
outburst to begin with. His smile reassured her; 
she shook hands with him in silence, and drew her 
fingers gently from the warm clasp in which he tried 
to hold them. 

‘‘We may be friends still, I hope,” he said. 

272 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


278 


She smiled faintly ; the pain at her heart was al- 
most more than she could bear. Till she saw him 
she had lately been trying to believe that her love 
was dead and buried, levelled out of existence by the 
monotony which had lulled thought to sleep, as much 
as by her resolution not to wrong Michael by think- 
ing about his rival. Now she felt lifted off her feet 
with wild joy at sight of the face she had so dearly 
loved. 

“ Are you still angry with me, Ruth? ” he went on 
tenderly. You must forgive me — indeed you must ! 
Surely you will not refuse me your friendship? I 
only ask for that. Surely even your husband will 
allow you to see an old friend? ” 

She flushed so deeply red that he was puzzled. 
He waited silently for her to explain. 

‘^1 have no husband,” she said sadly. “I went 
to church with Mr. Clifford, and I bear his name; 
but he is nothing to me. He would not have me for 
his wife because — because — he knows about you.” 

How can he know? ” he said impetuously. 

I told him ; it was his right to know.” 

He stood looking at her in surprise. 

Why did you tell him? It was so unnecessary, 
so wounding ! ” 

Ruth stared at him in surprise. 

“ I do not understand you.” 

“ I mean, dear girl, that when you have mixed a 
little more with the world you will learn the truth of 
the saying, that ‘What the eye does not see the heart 
does not feel.’ I mean that it is quite unnecessary 
for a husband or a wife to confide all their friendships 
to one another. If I had married this spring I should 
18 


274 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


not havG spoken of you to my wife; you know that I 
did not even tell you I was engaged. Besides, our 
case is special. No marriage can interfere with a 
true friendship like ours, dear girl.” 

He took a step forward, but Ruth moved away ; 
her words had so fired his love that he could hardly 
keep it within bounds, and his face betrayed him. 

“ You are bound to be kind to me,” he said, in his 
sweet, low tone; it thrilled through the girl and 
made her tremble; “and I will tell you why. For 
your sake, because I would not give up loving you, 
I have lost my promised wife and the fortune she 
was to bring me. I am as free, dearest, as I was in 
those happy days at Appledore. You ought at least 
to make up to me for that loss, sweet one. Besides, 
it removes your scruples; I am all your own.” 

Ruth murmured something, but she did not know 
what she said. She had made so sure that she and 
Reginald Bevington were finally parted that surprise 
and unreadiness mastered her. There was some- 
thing, too, stronger than either surprise or unreadi- 
ness — something that flushed her face and glowed in 
her eyes as they met her lover’s. It was all in vain 
she felt that she had turned from the thought of him, 
that she had tried to believe he meant evil rather 
than good toward her ; the love she saw in his eyes 
was fast undoing all her resolutions. She had been 
allowing her thoughts to drift as they pleased in 
these weeks of idle dreaming by the sea, and the 
process had not strengthened her moral tone. She 
had wilfully ignored the power of her love, had care- 
lessly glossed it over, instead of striving to uproot it ; 
and now she was powerless — it had its way. As her 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


275 


eyes met Reginald’s she saw that they swam with 
tenderness. He came still nearer and tried to put 
his arm round her. She drew back instantly. . 

“ If you have so little respect for me I must leave 
you,” she said sadly. You forget that this place 
is not private.” 

Pardon me ! I deserve reproof, but I forget ev- 
erything but you. You may trust me, my own 
Ruth ; you are mine ; you cannot say you have left 
off loving me.” 

She was silent. 

“I will be so patient,” he went on, “so very pa- 
tient. I will do anything you ask ; but, dear friend, 
you will let me come and see you? You own that 
your husband has deserted you. Truly, his marriage 
was the trick of the dog in the manger! Why did 
he take you if he does not value you? But for him 
you could be mine absolutely. How do you know, 
my Ruth, that this Clifford has not a dearer friend 
somewhere, whose society he prefers to yours? ” 

Ruth hung her head. She knew it was her fault 
that her companion dared to speak in this way of 
Michael ; she need not have told Mr. Bevington her 
present position. It flashed upon her that her hus- 
band’s name might have proved a shield in her pres- 
ent position if she had not been so foolishly candid. 
She reddened with a guilty consciousness that she 
had made this avowal for Reginald’s sake, to relieve 
him from the pain of believing her unfaithful to him. 

He misunderstood her silence. 

“It is so, then? By Jove! how dared he come 
between us? How dared he marry you, my sweet 
Ruth?” 


276 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


The words seemed to pierce into her brain, and to 
let fresh light on her troubled thoughts. 

She no longer saw the flushed face of her handsome 
young lover; she saw in his place her husband, stern 
and powerful, as he had looked when he stood towering 
over her and asked her how she had dared to man}" 
him. What a coward she was, knowing all the 
blame to be duly hers, to let any of it light on 
Michael ! 

‘‘ No,” she said firmly, “ my husband is not capable 
of such conduct. He loved me dearly, but he has a 
right to be offended; he knows I do not love him.” 

Bevington angrily interrupted her. 

“ Nonsense ! As if you were fit to marry such a per- 
son! I can understand that you married him for 
your father’s sake, in the same way I was going to 
marry to please my mother. On the whole, I thank 
Mr. Clifford for the pattern he has set me. I assure 
you I am not above following it. I shall never give 
you up. You are dearer to me than a wife can ever 
be. Come, dearest, let us go and see your father. 
I long to shake hands again with the kind old man.” 

He had spoken impetuously. Carried out of him- 
self by the force of his passion, he had let his words 
come at will. He caught Ruth’s hand as he ended, 
and held it so tightly that she could not draw it away 
without a struggle. She was so dizzied and bewil- 
dered that she was even glad to be guided up the 
steep layers of shingle; but the delight that thrilled 
through her veins at his touch was a true warning. 
Every beating pulse told her how she still loved her 
companion, and how urgent it was that she should 
keep her promise to her husband. She felt that she 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


277 


must send Mr. Bevington away, and the sooner the 
better, if she meant to keep her word. She had be- 
come lazy and listless while she sat day after day 
gazing at the sea. She was indeed demoralized ; but 
a few weeks will not undo the teaching of a lifetime, 
and Ruth’s mother had lived long enough to teach 
her child how to find help to do her duty in this sore 
strait. 

When they reached the border of the meadow the 
girl drew her hand swiftly from her companion’s 
grasp and uttered a brief unspoken prayer. “ Lead 
me not into temptation,” she said silently, and though 
the words seemed formal and lifeless the very effort 
to seek stronger help than her own nerved her against 
her weakness. 

She turned to Mr. Bevington. 

^‘You must leave me,” she said with a decision 
that surprised him. I promised that I would not 
willingly see you, and you must help me to keep my 
word. Go away now, and do not try to see me 
again.” 

I cannot go away, and you must not ask me to 
make such a promise. I have kept true to you ; you 
confess that your marriage was a sham. Why, then, 
can we not be friends? See, I do not even ask to 
kiss your hand. Why do you wish to deprive me of 
the exquisite joy of seeing you now and then? It 
would be such a comfort to tell you my troubles. 
You forget that you are my only real friend.” 

While she stood listening Ruth’s heart pleaded 
powerfully in his favor. Her eyes were fixed on the 
grass, and she mechanically counted the plantain 
heads that grew near her feet. Once more the re- 


278 


APPLEDOEE FAkM. 


membrance of her husband’s strong, honest face came 
to help her. She had told him she would have noth- 
ing to do with Eeginald Bevington ; how could she 
then break a promise? Whatever it might cost her 
she was bound to send this dearly loved friend away 
from her, and to refuse to see him again. 

She looked up at last, sad but determined. 

‘‘ Let us say good-by here,” she said. “I believe 
you care for me. If you do you must wish me to do 
right; it must be wrong for us to meet at present.” 

“Why must it be wrong? ” he asked vehemently. 
“Just because you have gone through an empty form 
with a man you do not love, who will never be any- 
thing more to you than a mere acquaintance? It is 
a mere fancy of duty that possesses you, and it is 
utterly unreal, a thorough mistake. You shall not 
sacrifice our lives to it.” He paused; then he said 
quietly : “ Be patient, , my darling ! Take time to 
think ! I will go now, but I will call and see your 
father, and then, dearest Ruth, we will have another 
talk. Good-by, sweet friend ! ” 

He raised his hat and left her, the more readily 
because he saw the little boy coming across the 
field from the cottage, followed by a staid-looking 
woman. 

“It’s all right, dear; I may come to tea,” the child 
shouted ; but Ruth hurried across the meadow, pass- 
ing him with a nod, while Mrs. Eimell, who had 
come out with Watty and now turned homeward 
again, kept her eyes keenly fixed on her lodger’s 
fiushed face. 

The landlady was sorely disturbed; she had let 
these lodgings for years past, but her visitors had 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


279 


always been highly respectable. Now, as she watched 
Mrs. Clifford, she told herself that she had always 
misdoubted her. She was too beautiful to be left 
alone in this way by a newly-married husband, unless 
there was a reason for it ; and the landlady thought 
that this handsome, fashionable young man was a 
more than sufficient reason for a husband’s jealousy. 
Mrs. Rimell had always been poor, but a strong sense 
of what she called “gentility” had kept her from 
making acquaintances. She had seen scarcely any- 
thing of life or of people ; she was therefore suspicious, 
apt to see wrong-doing in anything that differed from 
her own small sphere of experience, and was ex- 
tremely narrow in her judgments. She at once 
decided that this beautiful Mrs. Clifford was not 
“what she should be,” or what her husband thought 
she was ; and Mrs. Rimell wished she had never come 
under her roof, though she did pay so regularly. 
The landlady gave an involuntary sigh, and Ruth 
turned and looked at her. The keen suspicion in the 
woman’s face alarmed the girl; for a moment she 
felt tempted to justify herself, and then she saw that 
explanation was quite uncalled for. 

Philip Bryant looked excited when his daughter 
came in ; his lips quivered at the sight of Ruth. 

“Who is it, my girl?” he said eagerly. “Your 
little chap came in, and said there was a gentleman 
on the beach and you had stayed with him. Was it 
Michael, dear?” Ruth felt stunned; it had not oc- 
curred to her that Watty would go in and see her 
father. “ That youngster’s a spreck little chap,” her 
father went on. “He came in to see you with a 
message from his uncle, and when I said he would 


280 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


find you on the beach he nodded. ‘Is she there 
still? ’ he said. ‘She was there with a gentleman. ’ ” 

“It was not Michael,” she said slowly. “It was 
Mr. Bevington; he wants to call and see you.” 

Bryant smiled with pleasure. 

“ I take that to be exceedingly kind of Mr. Beving- 
ton,” he said. “I shall be very glad to see him. 
But he was always a perfect gentleman, Ruth — not 
one of your make-believes. He was as free with his 
money as he was pleasant. I’m sure I shall be right 
down glad to see him. Did you ask him to supper, 
my girl?” 

Ruth laughed in a hard, forced way. It struck 
her as grotesque, this notion of asking her lover to 
sup under the roof which her husband had provided 
for her. 

“ I am not sure whether he will call to-day or to- 
morrow ;” then, in a firmer tone, “ but, father, we 
could not ask Mr. Bevington to come and see us. 
Michael would not like it.” 

Her father leaned back in his chair and stared at 
her wuth an amused expression in his still handsome 
brown eyes. 

“My dear girl,” he said deprecatingly, “isn’t that 
absurd? You women take fads into your heads — 
even a good woman like you, Ruth.” 

She shivered and shrank into herself. 

“ Don’t call me good, father ! Please don’t ! ” she 
checked herself ; since his illness she dared not speak 
about anything to her father that might trouble him 
when he was left alone. 

“Well, my girl,” he said fondly, “if you’re not 
good I’d like to see a better. What I meant was 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


281 


that Michael was always partial to the young gentle- 
man. Besides that, do you suppose, child, that you 
can do wrong in Michael’s eyes? ” 

I’ll go and take off my hat.” 

Her father looked at her in surprise, she so rarely 
spoke abruptly to him ; but Ruth hurried at once to 
her bedroom. She so longed for sympathy and help 
that she had nearly told him in how sore a strait she 
found herself. If only her mother had been spared 
to her ! 

She stood in her room, her hands clasped round 
the post of the old-fashioned bedstead, her head 
pressed against it; and then, with the longing for 
her mother, came a vivid remembrance of her 
mother’s teaching. The unhappy girl became con- 
scious that she was not left alone; she seemed to 
know that there was help for her if she would only 
seek it. She stood with bent head and clasped hands, 
while every instant the conviction took more com- 
plete possession of her will. Then slowly, reverently, 
she knelt down and prayed with all her heart and 
soul that God would save her from herself and from 
her sinful love. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Ruth had never been to school, and she had read 
few novels. She had not had one intimate girl friend 
except Peggy Whishaw. She may also have been 
helped by the masculine tone of her education. Cer- 
tainly she had not spent her girlhood in dreaming of 
a possible husband. She had led such a healthy, 
happy life that she had no tendency to morbid ideas. 
She had thought of love and of marriage in a healthy, 
natural fashion, as facts that would probably come 
into her life. It was doubtless this absence of self- 
consciousness that had at first made her so blind to 
the nature of her own feelings for Reginald Beving- 
ton. His singular charm of manner, the complete 
contrast he afforded to any one she had ever known, 
had fascinated the fresh, simple-natured girl. Be- 
fore she saw Mr. Bevington, when she sometimes 
thought of a husband, Ruth had decided that she 
must marry a man of strong character. She knew 
her own tendency to self-will, and she longed for a 
guide. She had mourned her grandfather almost as 
much for the real loss she experienced in his self- 
reliance and his ability to advise, as from the love 
she had for him. Her devoted love for her father 
had never allowed her to become fully aware of his 
weakness of character. They had been more like 
brother and sister than father and daughter. When 
of late circumstances had forced this weakness on 
382 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


283 


her notice she reminded herself that he had told her 
her mother was the first good infiuence that had 
come into his life. Ruth always shrank from judg- 
ing others, and she also troubled herself very little 
as to what others might think of her. She had looked 
up to Reginald Bevington. His outward superiority 
had so impressed her that in the generous faith of 
her nature she had believed it to be thorough. She 
had hoped he would help her father by his advice. 
His request for secrecy before he left Appledore had 
been a blow to her confidence, but she reflected that 
he had his own parents to study, and he did not, she 
told herself, know her father as well as she did, and 
could not therefore be expected to put full trust in 
Philip Bryant’s silence. 

It seemed to her now as she prepared to rejoin her 
father that she had not done Mr. Bevington justice 
this afternoon. He had been excited at meeting her, 
and had said things which his sober judgment would 
condemn; but he had also said he meant to keep 
within the lines of friendship. It seemed to her that 
she had been cowardly ; she had asked him to leave 
her as if she were afraid of herself, wdien she ought 
to have asked his advice, and to have relied on his 
friendship to help her. Just now she had resolved 
that she would not see him again, but this last 
thought had given her courage. They must meet 
once more, she decided, and they must resolve to 
help one another to be brave in bearing the trial that 
had been sent them. 

“ If we both try in earnest we shall be helped,” she 
said to herself. 

She went downstairs to her father in a wrought-up 


284 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


mood, feeling happier than she had felt in her weeks 
of aimless dreaming. 

Philip Bryant kept expecting his visitor ; he talked 
incessantly of him in a half-childish way. But Mr. 
Bevington did not come to the cottage. His scruples 
with regard to Ruth had vanished since he had 
learned her husband’s desertion. The sight of her, 
the love he had read in her eyes, had fired him with 
the determination to win her. Lady Emily would 
not have believed her young cousin capable of the 
prompt energy he showed. He found on inquiry 
that he could get to Munby, the nearest market-town, 
by train ; and he decided to go over and sleep there. 
He had seen for himself that Ruth was unhappy, 
and she was neglected by her husband. He felt that 
he could never change toward her; she would always 
be the one love of his life. He was convinced . that 
he could make her happy ; it must therefore be his 
duty to do so. 

His idea was to take her away from Dohnouth to- 
morrow. He could give her and her father a better 
home than the Dolmouth cottage, and he persuaded 
himself that Ruth would consent to go with him if 
she had her father to live with her. Mr. Bevington 
meant to see Bryant next morning. It was quite 
possible, he thought, that he might be brought to 
second his views, if he did not make them too appar- 
ent at starting. Reginald had a clear recollection 
of the farmer’s willingness to drift and let things 
come as they would. Surely, if he could little by 
little induce Bryant to see that his daughter’s present 
mode of life was unreasonable, and that doubtless 
the husband would be glad to get rid of her, Bev- 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


285 


ington shut his eyes as to what might happen in 
the future. If it obtruded itself he told himself that 
he should never leave off loving Ruth; how could 
he? He did not believe, now that he had seen her 
again, that there was such another woman. 

He found a quiet lodging in Munby, which he 
thought would do for Bryant until he wished him to 
join his daughter. He meant to go abroad with 
Ruth, so as to avoid all gossip; and then, having 
finished his arrangements, he took the train for 
Dolmouth. 

Mrs. Rimell’s gentility had made her adverse from 
visiting her neighbors, but she had one chum in Dol- 
mouth, Miss Tabitha Stamper, who kept the post 
office and sold photographs and stationery. Miss 
Stamper had been told a good deal in favor of Mr. 
Bryant, who had fulfilled Clifford’s expectations with 
regard to his landlady. His good looks, his winning 
manners, and his lameness had made the shy, kindly 
woman devoted to him ; and she sang his praises to 
her friend in their frequent chats in Miss Tabitha’s 
sanctum behind the curtained glass door that led into 
the shop, but the landlady rarely praised Mrs. Clifford. 
Mrs. Rimell considered that her lady lodger was un- 
necessarily beautiful ; she was very pleasant, but she 
was not a patch on her father. She was unsociable ; 
she had never, even on her first arrival, asked Mrs. 
Rimell to take a walk with her, or tell her about the 
place. Mrs. Clifford rarely wrote a letter, very sel- 
dom sewed, did not often read ; her chief delight in- 
doors was to sit at the pianoforte which her husband 
had hired from Munby and sing till Mrs. Rimell, 
who disliked music, wondered her lodger’s throat 


286 


iPPLEDOEE FAE3L 


could stand it ; but then Mrs. Clifford was so little 
in-doors. She either sat with her father in the gar- 
den or on that lonely strip of beach, or else took 
long walks quite by herself. Mrs. Rimell did not 
tell out these facts about her lodger, she merely let 
them fall in the way of hints from her pale, flabby 
lips, when her friend Tabitha tried her patience by 
recounting the effect which Ruth’s appearance in 
church had created in the mind of Miss Stamper’s 
nephew, the owner of the all-shop of Dolmouth, and 
on those of his single fellow- townsmen. Miss Tabi- 
that whispered that the village schoolmaster, a mar- 
ried man with a family of young children, had been 
heard to say that the strange lady was as beautiful 
as an angel. “ Such an expression, you know, dear 
Mrs. Rimell, to apply to another man’s wife! ” 

Yesterday evening Miss Stamper had heard of 
Mrs. Clifford’s interview with a strange gentleman 
on the beach, and the cronies had shaken their heads, 
and had wondered what husbands could expect who 
left giddy young wives to take care of themselves. 
It was therefore natural that when next day Mrs. 
Rimell threw open her lodgers’ parlor door and an- 
nounced “A gentleman to see you, sir,” she looked 
grimer than ever. 

Ruth, happening to glance at her, was surprised at 
the spitefulness of the woman’s expression. 

Reginald Bevington went up to his old friend and 
shook hands. His greeting was affectionate and 
yet full of tact. It seemed for the moment to Ruth 
as if the old days at Appledore had come back. The 
young fellow was evidently delighted to see his old 
• friend, Except for the extreme gentleness of his 


APPLEDORI^ FARM. 


287 


manner there was nothing to indicate consciousness 
of the great change he saw in Philip Bryant. He 
then turned to Ruth, greeting her in an easy friendly 
manner, without any of the glow of pleasure that 
had sparkled in his eyes at sight of her father. 

The girl smiled. “ He is what I fancied he was,” 
she thought ; “ he knows how hard it is for me to see 
him, and he will not make it harder for me than I 
can bear.” 

“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Bevington,” her 
father said, in his genial way; “but you should 
have come earlier; we could have given you some 
lunch.” 

“Thank you, I am staying in Munby. I only 
came out to see you. I want you to come out to me 
there. You will come, you and your daughter, 
won’t you, Mr. Bryant? ” 

Bryant looked delighted. A broad smile spread 
over his face, but Bevington saw that he looked 
appealingly at Ruth. 

“ It is very kind of you,” he said ; “ we shall enjoy 
a little change, shan’t we, Ruth? ” 

Ruth was looking very grave. This proposal had 
made her suddenly nervous, but she had determined 
that her father should not guess the truth. Such a 
revelation might, she thought, bring on a fresh 
seizure. 

“You are still weak, dear,” she said affectionately; 
then she looked directly at Mr. Bevington, and forced 
herself to speak as if the subject were completely 
indifferent to her. 

“ My dear father looks so much stronger than he 
is. You would not guess how much even a short 


288 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


railway journey would try him. He could not pos- 
sibly go to Munby.” 

Bevington looked hard at her, and her eyes fell 
under his. Her opposition only served to inflame 
him ; it made him even more determined. 

“ But, my dear Mrs. Clifford, every precaution 
shall be taken. I have ascertained that an invalid- 
carriage can be had, so that Mr. Bryant can lie on a 
sofa all the way. I assure you there will be no 
fatigue.” 

Ruth felt too desperate to maintain her show of 
indifference. Her brown eyebrows contracted, and 
the square corners of her expressive mouth were 
strangely hard and set. Her father had been watch- 
ing her with surprise, and ho remembered what she 
had said about her husband. 

“You leave it to me, Mr. Bevington,” he said, 
with his kind smile. “ I’ll talk it over with Ruth 
and let you know when to expect us, as you are kind 
enough to wish us to come.” Bevington was ear- 
nestly wishing that Ruth would leave the room. He 
recognized that a great mental change had passed 
over her father. To this ardent young fellow, full 
of life and animal vigor, the poor, still figure in the 
easy-chair seemed helpless alike in mind and body. 
It would depend, Reginald thought, whether he or 
Ruth had the stronger power over the invalid ; and 
as Ruth in her heart was on his side, if he could 
only get Bryant to himself for a few minutes her 
scruples, he told himself, would have to give way. 
He glanced at her as she sat near her father, and ho 
thought she looked utterly unyielding. He decided 
to wait. He would come over again and see Bryant 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


289 


alone, and then as he remembered how dutiful Ruth 
had been he told himself he would get such a hold 
over Bryant as would oblige Ruth to give up her 
opposition. 

“It is not real,” he said to himself. “The sweet 
darling longs to come to me, but she is afraid.” 

To Ruth’s surprise he did not repeat his invitation. 
After a few more words with Bryant about Apple- 
dore and its present tenant, he took his leave, his 
manner to the girl being the same as his greeting 
had been — friendly, but entirely indifferent. 

As soon as the visitor had left them Bryant looked 
gravely at his daughter. 

“ Why do you grudge me a little change? ” he said 
in the pathetic tone which he knew had power to 
move her. “Why won’t you let me go to Munby? 
I am quite well now — you know I am.” 

Ruth stood thinking. Her difficulties were thick- 
ening. She had always believed that she had has- 
tened her father’s second seizure by her confession to 
him on the eve of her marriage. She fancied that 
his memory had been affected by this last illness, for 
he often spoke to her of Michael as if he were igno- 
rant that she cared for some one else. His manner 
to Mr. Bevington to-day had shown her that he did 
not in any way suspect the relations between them. 
It was, she considered, essential for her father’s sake 
that he should never learn the truth. 

“I did not know you cared for change, dear,” she 
said lovingly. “ I am only thinking of Michael. It 
is not my fancy ; indeed it is not. The last time he 
came to Appledore he spoke very harshly of Mr. Bev- 
ington, and I promised him I would not willingly 
19 


m 


APPLEDORB FARM, 


see this gentleman again. Do you not think that 
my husband would have a right to be angry if we 
were to accept Mr. Bevington’s hospitality? 

Bryant looked disappointed and fretful. 

“That’s all very well now,” he said, “but you 
must excuse me for saying you are inconsistent. If 
Michael told you this, how was it that you stayed 
talking on the beach alone with this young man? ” 
He was looking at her inquisitively, and the girl 
shivered at the danger before her. She waited to 
collect her thoughts before she answered : 

“ I was telling Mr. Bevington what I had promised; 
I let him know that my husband does not like him.” 
Bryant’s face flushed with vexation. 

“ That was extremely imprudent and unnecessary. 
You are wise for a woman, Ruth, but still you are 
only a woman. No man would have said such a 
thing. I am sure it was very good-natured of the 
young fellow to come and see me after such an in- 
sult. I’ll tell you what it is, my dear. I don’t want 
to hurt you, and I know there’s no use in meddling 
between man and wife, but there’s something about 
Michael’s behavior to you that doesn’t satisfy me. 
I know he sacriflced himself on my account — the 
doctor told me as much when be came to see us off — 
but what I don’t understand is this continued ab- 
sence. He must come back to Purley now and again. 
Well, then, why don’t he run over to see you? ” 

Ruth put her hand over her face, and he thought 
she was crying. ^ 

“ There, there, dear child ! ” he said ; “ forgive me 1 
Try and forget what I’ve said. I know you feel as 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


291 


I do that after what Michael’s done for me I ought 
not to say a word against him, or dispute his wishes. 
Well, I won’t say any more. Kiss me, darling; and 
you shall help me write a letter to Mr. Bevington. 
I’ll let him see that we can’t accept his kindness 
once for all.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


Philip Bryant was right when he said Michael 
Clifford must sometimes have gone back to Parley. 
He did not know that on these occasions Michael 
had contrived to make his stay as short as possible. 

His anger against Ruth had subsided ; he had not 
been able to sustain it, and he so ardently longed for 
an excuse to present himself at the cottage that he 
was afraid to remain in Parley, lest he might be 
tempted against his better judgment to visit Dol- 
mouth. He knew that his best hope of winning his 
wife’s love lay in avoiding her till she should make 
the first advance to reconciliation. He could not 
now go back to his first idea of trying little by little 
to win Ruth’s love; their last meeting had made 
that hope impossible. He would not now take Ruth 
as his wife till he had proof that she no longer loved 
this other man. He told himself angrily when this 
thought came that she ought never to have thought 
of Reginald Bevington as a lover. 

Clifford’s own love, however, was Ruth’s best ad- 
vocate on this point ; he could judge her feelings by 
his own. He knew that he ought not to have allowed 
himself to care for her as he did, but when he tried 
to think this out and go back to the beginning he 
could not find a clew to guide him. He could not 
possibly fix a time when he had not loved the girl •, 
393 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


293 


it seemed to him that he had always thought of her 
in one way, and had longed to have her for his wife. 
His love seemed to go back to her very young days, 
when she was still studying with her grandfather, 
and when Michael had only had occasional glimpses 
of her, and had dreamed out a possible future as he 
rode back to Parley. 

Only one fact stood out clearly revealed to him as 
he thought of his disastrous marriage. If Ruth could 
not bring herself to love him his life was irretrievably 
marred. He knew that he could not think of any 
other woman, even if it were possible to free himself 
from Ruth. She had even come between him and 
Dorothy, for he could not forget his sister’s just and 
well-founded warning, and he could not forget the 
jar it had caused between them. 

He had invited himself to spend Christmas with 
his brother in Scotland, and he was now on his way. 
He hoped to persuade Dorothy to come and stay with 
him at Purley as soon as his house was ready. At 
present the brick-layers were idle ; there had been a 
sharp frost for a fortnight, and this seemed likely to 
continue. If the weather should change before the 
end of January the builder assured Mr. Clifford the 
house could be ready for occupation by March. 
Clifford longed to be at home again, and yet he was 
now asking himself what excuse he should make, 
when the house was ready to receive her, for his 
wife’s continued absence. 

It was a relief to reach the end of his journey. 
Late as it was he rejoiced to see that his brother 
lived on the farther side of the little town of Dal- 
garno. There was glimmer enough left to show him 


294 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


that the square house stood by itself in its own 
grounds and in the country. 

The sight of Dorothy was very cheering. She 
looked stronger and healthier than he had ever seen 
her, and he was rejoiced to see his tall, bronzed 
brother, whom he had not seen for more than a year. 

At breakfast next morning he was introduced to 
his two nieces, Maggie and Lucy. Since he had 
seen them they had passed from children into a coui)le 
of fair-skinned, dark -eyed girls. They reminded 
him of their fair, sweet Scotch mother ; they had her 
yellow hair and her soft, kind voice, with their 
father’s dark eyes and tall, erect figure. It pleased 
Michael to see how devoted they were to “ Aunt Dor- 
othy,” and he was surprised to see the change which 
increased responsibilities had worked in Dorothy. 
She was twice as brisk, more like the thoughtful 
mother of a family than the petted invalid she had 
been at Purley. 

“You are stronger, are you not? ” he said to her. 

“I hope so,” she answered, “but do you know I 
begin to think I might have done a good deal more 
than I did at Purley if you had not spoiled me. You 
see I had grown to think your notion that I was not 
strong enough to be useful was correct. Instead of 
trying to find out for myself how much I really could 
do, I simply indulged myself at your expense.” 

It was delightful to Michael after his long solitude 
from all family ties to find himself once more with 
those who loved him. It was especially delightful 
to be again with Dorothy ; but for a day or two he 
avoided any opportunity of finding himself alone 
with his sister. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


295 


Dorothy had divined this avoidance; she also 
shrank from a talk which must necessarily turn on 
her brother’s marriage. Hitherto she had only 
spoken of his wife when she inquired for her and for 
Mr. Bryant. At last the chance came. David 
.Clifford took his daughters into Edinburgh to see an 
old friend of their mother’s, and Michael said he 
should stay at home with Dorothy and take a walk 
with her on the moor behind the house. The house 
stood alone. In front there was a view of the river 
backed by fields, but behind was a wide-spreading 
moor that stretched up, heather-covered, to the pine- 
crowned hill. 

The sun was shining brightly, and Dorothy’s pale 
cheeks glowed with the keen, bleak air and exercise 
as she led the way across the moor. 

wish you could have seen this heather in 
autumn,” she said; ^4t was such a glorious purple 
against the blue-green of the pines ! Those brown 
masses of faded blossom show you what it was. 
Higher up the heather grows so deep that when I 
played Tiide-and-seek’ with Maggie and Lucy they 
could not find me ; I only had to sit down and the 
ling bushes hid me completely.” 

Dorothy’s ^^hide-and-seek” amused Michael. 

“ I’am afraid Purley will seem very slow and dull 
after Dalgarno,” he said; “and yet, dear, I want 
you to come to me for awhile, when the house is free 
of work-people.” 

Dorothy looked up at him, and she saw that he 
was smiling, as he waited for her answer. 

“You will not want me then,” she said ; “you will 
have your wife.” 


296 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


He did not look vexed; he seemed to have his 
answer ready. 

I hardly think so. Dr. Buchan told me that Mr. 
Bryant has a very weak heart ; he does not think he 
can live long. I doubt if he could bear the fatigue 
of another move. Buchan considers that fresh seiz- 
ure would carry him off ; he says the pure air and 
the quiet of a place like Dolmouth are more likely to 
prolong my old friend’s life than a market-town, 
which occasionally has some stir and bustle in it. 
Don’t you think it would be really selfish to ask my 
wife to bring her father to live in Purley? ” 

always told you you were like Sir Galahad, 
Michael,” she said impetuously. “You are too good 
in this case. I only wonder how your wife can bear 
to stay away from you ; I suppose she is very good 
too.” She felt that her lip was curling, and she also 
felt that she was on very tender ground. She sud- 
denly stooped to gather a tuft of moss which lay 
gleaming, a brilliant, tender green, at the bottom of 
a little heath pool thawed by the warm sunshine. 
She did not see her brother suddenly redden under 
his stem mask of self-control. 

“ My wife is extremely unselfish, Dorothy. I can’t 
bear to think what the loss of her father will be to her.” 

Dorothy felt irritable. It was natural, she thought, 
that Ruth should be fond of her father, and all these 
months the devoted sister had been trying to accept 
Michael’s very singular arrangements in the light he 
gave them ; but in Dorothy’s opinion a woman’s love 
for her husband must exceed any mere family affec- 
tion — especially when Michael was the husband in 
question. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


297 


She gave him a cheering smile. 

“ Ruth will grieve a good deal, my dear boy, but 
she will get over it. Time is a wonderful healer, 
and I’m sure she will resign herself to God’s will. 
You will go to her at once when it happens, will you 
not? And you will certainly be able to comfort her.” 

“ I hope so.” He turned from the subject and began 
hurriedly to tell her about his last foreign journey. 
He had come home through Germany, and he had 
met with some amusing experiences in his endeavors 
to make himself understood. He made his sister 
laugh till she quite forgot her discontent about Ruth. 

“If she only knew the truth,” Michael said to 
himself as they went back to the house, “ if she could 
only guess it how angry my little Dorothy would be ! ” 

He told himself she should never learn it. No one 
should ever know how Ruth had deceived him. He 
meant that part of their lives to be a buried memory 
between him and his wife. Dorothy should never 
know it. His visit to Dalgarno had done him good ; 
he was becoming hopeful. The rest from incessant 
work, the freshness of his surroundings, and the 
delight of being with those of whose affection he felt 
sure, had helped to heal the heart-wound he had 
received on his last visit to Appledore. He took 
walks with his brother ; he skated with his nieces, 
who were extremely elated by their uncle’s compan- 
ionship; but at the end of a week his restlessness 
had returned. 

At breakfast he told his brother and Dorothy that 
he was due next day in Norfolk. 

“If the house is ready,” he said to David, “you 
will spare Dorothy to me at Easter? And why 


298 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


should you not come too, David, for a few days — 
you and the girls? ” 

So it was settled, and Michael announced his in- 
tention of travelling by the night express to his 
destination. He said he had taken a most unusual 
holiday, and that he must make up for it by saving 
as much time as possible. 

You will not have started before I come home,” 
David said. “I shall bring the second post, and 
who knows but that I may bring in something to 
change your mind? ” 

Michael smiled ; he had promised to take his nieces 
to play golf some distance oft, and the expedition 
would take the best part of the day, as they were to 
lunch at a friend’s house. Dorothy walked part of 
the way with them, and came home rather sadly 
by herself. She smiled as she thought of Michael’s 
wish that she should go back to Purley; she de- 
termined if he did not forbid it that she would 
go over to Dolmouth and make acquaintance with 
Ruth. It would humanize the relations between 
them ; for Ruth’s answer to Dorothy’s letter on her 
marriage had been so formal that it was evident she 
did not wish for a correspondence. And also the 
astute Dorothy promised herself to discover whether 
Ruth could not be persuaded to give up her watch 
over her father for a few weeks and devote herself to 
her husband. 

“ I am much better fitted to take care of Mr. Bry- 
ant now than I was when he came to Purley,” she 
said, rejoicing in her new stock of health. 

The golfing party did not reach home long before 
David did. The girls, full of excitement and delight. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


299 


gathered round their father, buzzing out all they had 
to tell, especially to recount Uncle Michael’s exploits; 
while their uncle was busy with the contents of a 
packet of letters brought in for him by his brother. 

Dorothy sat watching Michael, and she saw that 
he kept one letter in his hand while he read the 
others. She guessed that the reserved letter was 
from his wife, and when he left the room she felt 
sure that he had gone to enjoy his letter in private. 

The others went away, but Dorothy sat waiting 
till Michael came back. She saw as he entered that 
his face was full of suffering ; he came up to her and 
said in a low, dejected tone : Something very sad 
has happened, dear. My poor old friend has gone. 
Ruth has lost her father.” 

Dorothy stared at him in wonder ; he seemed un- 
hinged, utterly cast down, and yet he had himself 
said that Mr. Bryant had not long to live. She pulled 
herself together and thought of Ruth and her sorrow. 

“ Poor girl ! ” she said tenderly ; you will go to 
her at once, won’t you, Michael? ” 

His face hardened as she looked at him. 

cannot,” he said roughly; “I am due at Nor- 
wich to-morrow ; two hard- worked business men are 
coming to meet me there the day after to-morrow ; I 
cannot break the appointment. And there is some- 
thing else of a pressing nature; I am asked by a 
man who has always been one of my best friends to 
go with him to look at some land considerably south 
of Vienna. We have to start in three days; Ido 
not see how I can go to Ruth.” 

Dorothy was staring at him in utter surprise. 

“ But, Michael, you must go to your wife. How 


300 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


can she manage all alone? There will be the funeral, 
you know.” 

“ That will be over by now ; she did not write di- 
rectly, and the letter has been delayed by going to 
Purley. I suppose she thought I had returned. I 
had not told her I had lengthened my visit here.” 
He paused and began to walk up and down the room. 
Presently he came back to his sister. 

I want you to do something for me, Dorothy. I 
want you to go to Ruth.” 

Dorothy felt in a mist; she began to think that 
Michael and his wife had certainly quarrelled. She 
had thought it strange that he had not spent Christ- 
mas at Dolmouth ; yet if there had been a coolness 
between them she fancied that Ruth’s present sorrow 
ought to heal any cause of disagreement. 

“I will go if you wish it,” she said slowly, ‘^and I 
will do all I can; but I am afraid I cannot be of 
much use in comforting a person I have never seen.” 

“I know you better than you know yourself,” he 
answered. You will be able to help and comfort 
Ruth. You knew her father and you liked him ; and 
I am sure she longs for sympathy, though she says 
she wishes to be alone just at first. If you can be 
ready to start in two days’ time I will write and tell 
her to expect you. She must not be left alone, even 
if she wishes it.” 

“ Of course not ” Dorothy hesitated ; she looked 

up at her brother’s saddened face. 

I know I ought not to interfere” [she felt almost 
too nervous to get her words out] , ‘‘ but Michael dear, 
if you could only go to her for a day it would be so 
much better in every way.” Dorothy could not un- 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


m 


derstand her brother’s conduct. Of course his wife 
ought to have summoned him at once, but the poor 
thing had perhaps been stupefied with her sorrow 
just at first. “I dare say it was all very sudden,” 
she added softly. 

“Ruth does not enter into detail; she only says 
there was another seizure and there was no return of 
consciousness. She called in the Dolmouth doctor, 
and he told her it would be useless to summon 
Buchan. She says that all was over before Buchan 
could have reached Dolmouth. The rector there has 
been very kind. Once for all, I cannot go to her; if 
you will take my place it will be a great relief to me 
to know you are with her.” 

“I will go whenever you like, Michael.” 

He had decided to put off his own start till to- 
morrow, and he now sat down beside Dorothy and 
planned out her journey with his usual rapidity. He 
told her that he should probably be absent two 
months, and that when he returned to Burley, if the 
house was still unfinished, he should join her and 
Ruth at Dolmouth. 

During the evening both he and Dorothy were un- 
usually silent. His strange abruptness had convinced 
the loving sister that there was some mystery between 
Michael and his wife which he did not care to explain. 

Meanwhile Michael was in a strange state of alter- 
nate hope and depression. He wondered what Doro- 
thy would have thought of his wife’s letter. At 
night, when he went to his room he read it through 
again. 

Ruth began by telling him that her father had 
died three days before ; she told this simply, but with 


302 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


a sadness that brought tears to her husband’s eyes. 
She said the rector had been very kind to her, and 
had helped her in making arrangements for the fu- 
neral. “I am sure,” the letter went on, “your first 
feeling will be to come to me in my trouble. I en- 
treat you not to do this ; I could not bear it. Please 
leave me to myself. I owe you too much already, 
and I do not wish to add to the debt. No, Michael; 
it is not only that. I must tell you the whole truth. 
I am trying to look at my future life really, and by 
God’s help I hope to do my duty to you, whether 
you forgive me or not. But do not let us meet yet ; 
let things take their course. If we force ourselves 
to be friends, if we meet now, it will only make our 
future, whatever that may be, more difficult. Do 
not come to Dolmouth ; but now that I am alone, if 
you will sometimes write to me I shall be thankful 
to get your letters.” 

Michael felt less hopeful when he had read the 
letter again. 

“Women are governed by their feelings,” he said 
to himself. “ Her father’s death has made her peni- 
tent and emotional. She perhaps feels that she has 
unsettled and spoiled my life. If she were really 
sorry she would be glad to give some proof of it ; she 
would ask me to come to her, and she would have 
written at once.” 

He grieved for the loss of his old friend and for 
Ruth’s trial; but the sore, ill-used feeling had come 
back. He could not bring himself to forgive his 
wifq’s persistent avoidance of him, or to feel as kindly 
toward her as he had been feeling when her letter 
reached him. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


Ruth stood on the platform of the little railway 
station waiting for her sister-in-law, and when Dor- 
othy stepped out of the train the two women looked 
at one another for a moment before they exchanged 
greetings. The little sister had never fully believed 
in Michael’s description of Ruth’s beauty. She had 
expected to see a far more ordinary girl. She was 
greatly impressed when she saw this lovely, stately 
creature, whose deep mourning made her look far 
paler and even more distinguished than usual, stand- 
ing alone on the platform. Dorothy had made up 
her mind that Michael, like most men who are deeply 
in love, had gifted the girl with all sorts of mental 
attributes to match her beauty. It had been evident 
to the keen-witted spinster, from the adoring way in 
which her father had spoken of Ruth, that she was a 
spoiled child. Xow her quiet dignity and repose of 
manner greatly impressed Dorothy, because these 
attributes came to her almost as a surprise. She 
felt at once the superiority of this singularly beauti- 
ful woman, and she was more than ever mystified 
at the strangeness of the relations that existed be- 
tween Michael and his wife. 

Dorothy looked affectionately at her new sister, 
and Ruth, who had not expected to like her, was 
pleased and touched. As they walked along together 
Dorothy began to speak so kindly and regretfully of 
303 


304 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


Philip Bryant that Ruth’s aching heart opened at 
once to her. When they reached the cottage, and 
she had placed her visitor on a sofa in the jDarlor, 
she bent over her and kissed her. 

It was very good of you to come,” she said. ‘‘ I 
am very glad to see you.” 

“Thank you,” Dorothy said simply, but she felt 
instinctively that her brother’s wife would not have 
made this advance unless she wished them to be 
friends. 

They talked at first of Dorothy’s journey, and then 
of Michael’s movements. The devoted sister was 
inclined to resent Ruth’s ignorance on the subject of 
her husband’s projected journey; it seemed to Doro- 
thy that Michael must have mentioned it when he 
wrote, and that his wife did not take sufficient inter- 
est in him and his affairs. Then, as she looked into 
the girl’s sweet, sad eyes, she remembered how 
recent her sorrow for her father was, and how much 
allowance should be made for her. 

The proof that Michael understood both his wife 
and his sister was that when Ruth that night had 
taken an affectionate leave of her visitor she won- 
dered how she had been able to bear the intense 
loneliness of the last few days. She recognized in 
Dorothy a sympathetic yet steadfast nature, to which 
she felt inclined to cling for help in her sorrow ; and 
she looked forward to a happy time with her. Ruth 
had longed to send for her aunt, but the feeling of 
her utter dependence on Michael had checked this 
wish. Now it seemed to her that Miss Clifford was 
safer than any one else, even if she did suspect that 
something was wrong between husband and wife. 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


305 


She was Michael’s sister, and for his sake Dorothy 
would be discreet. She certainly would not be in- 
clined, as her aunt would have been, to consider 
Michael a negligent husband.” 

After breakfast they went down together to the 
little bay. Dorothy was charmed with the delicious 
air. She liked the quiet of the place ; she also said 
she liked the cottage. 

‘^In fact,” she went on, with a mischievous light 
in her eyes, ‘^so far as I have seen there’s only one 
thing about the place I don’t like; I mean your sour- 
faced landlady. You must be very sweet-tempered 
to have borne so long with her. Does she always 
scowl as she did this morning? ” 

Ruth smiled. 

“ I fancy she looked crosser than usual because you 
are a stranger ; the poor woman is very shy. I think 
she does not like me, though I do not know how I 
have offended her. She liked my dear father, and 
she was very attentive to him ; so I used not to mind 
her frowns ; they have never troubled me much ; I 
suppose I am not observing,” she said simply. 

Dorothy looked hard at her companion. Her in- 
sight into character was keener than Ruth’s was, 
and she had had more scope for its exercise; her 
temperament also was far more nervous and sensitive. 

You look as if you had always been healthy, dear 
Ruth,” she said brightly. She had seen the girl’s 
eyes fill with tears when she spoke of her father, and 
she felt that she must cheer her. “You healthy peo- 
ple who can spend hours in taking in fresh air and 
sunshine hardly know, perhaps, how much you owe to 
such outward helps in the way of calmness and 
20 


306 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


cheerfulness. You look as if you were made of sun- 
shine, and were hardly ever cross ; and that is such 
a blessing. You and Michael are admirably suited; 
you will never worry him.” 

She sighed as she remembered her occasional irri- 
table fits, and the patience her brother had shown. 
Ruth did not answer; she sat looking out over the 
sea. 

‘^Now that I-have seen you,” Dorothy went on, “I 
shall be so glad to think of you settled in the old 
Purley House. You will be glad now when this exile 
is over, and you can be with Michael always.” 

“I have been very happy here, you know,” Ruth 
said. 

Dorothy gently stroked the hand that lay near 
hers. 

“You have been very good and very patient in 
bearing this separation, but you do not yet know as 
I do the happiness of living with Michael. The en- 
tire trust one feels in him is so restful ! It seems a 
part of his nature to put full trust in others, and to 
inspire them to trust him. I used to say to him that 
when I felt most wretched and weak and irritable he 
could always calm me — the very sight of his steadfast 
face was enough; and then, one knows that his is 
not the goodness of mere stupidity ; I have seen him 
very angry indeed when anger was needful.” 

“Yes,” Ruth spoke as if her thoughts were far 
away. She gave a long, shivering sigh. 

“I ought to apologize,” Dorothy smiled as she 
spoke, “for troubling you with my ideas about 
Michael, when of course you love him as well as I 
do. I am not quixotic, so I shan’t say you love him 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


307 


better; but you cannot think how I enjoy talking 
about my brother to you, because I know his praises 
must interest you.” 

Ruth had flushed with embarrassment. 

“ Have you always lived together? ” she asked. 

“Ever since Michael left school he and I have 
always kept house together. I used to live with my 
godmother, who spoiled me and left me a little inde- 
pendence. I dare say Michael has told you how 
soon our father and mother followed one another. 
David was away in Scotland when they died, learn- 
ing to be a lawyer ; and Michael became my charge. 
He never gave me a day’s trouble. I think you have 
a very happy life before you, Ruth.” 

The girl started up. She did not see Dorothy’s 
appealing glance; she was beckoning to AVatty, who 
suddenly, and as Ruth thought most fortunately, 
appeared on the beach. He had been standing there 
a minute before he was observed, and when he saw 
that Mrs. Clifford had a companion he began very 
gently to retreat, in the hope of escaping unobserved. 

“Come here, Watty,” Ruth said. “Here’s a new 
friend for you. This is my sister. Miss Clifford.” 

Watty eyed Dorothy inquisitively; then, appar- 
ently satisfied with what he saw, he drew nearer 
and held out his tiny hand, as if to welcome her to 
Dolmouth. 

“Is you come to live here for always?” he in- 
quired, his eyes sparkling with excitement. 

Dorothy kissed the little hand she held. - 

“ I am come for a little while, as long as my sister 
wants me.” 

She had evidently impressed Watty favorably. 


808 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


He seated himself close beside her and looked up into 
her smiling face. 

“Does you know some stories what she doesn’t 
know? ” he said in a confidential tone. 

Ruth laughed and sat down by him. 

“O Watty!” she said, laughing, “to think of 
your deserting an old friend for a new acquaintance ! 
You little turn-coat! But I can’t let you tiro Miss 
Clifford. If she is kind enough to tell you one story 
you must remember she is not as strong as I am.” 

“ As strong as you ! ” he whistled. “ Why, you 
never gets tired; you likes telling stories. When 
we’s married you shall tell me stories all day long, 
’cept when I’m at school. She’s going to be my 
wife,” he said to Dorothy. 

Dorothy put her arm round the little fellow and 
drew him close to her. 

“You had better take me for a wife, Watty,” she 
said. “I’m nearer your size. My sister is too tall 
for you. Besides, she has one husband already.” 

Watty wriggled himself away from her, and stood 
in front of Ruth, his legs planted widely apart, and 
looking very determined. 

“ Why didn’t you tell me you was married? ” His 
little voice was full of reproach. “You never told 
me so, nor showed me your husband, nor nothing.” 
Then, with sudden eagerness, “I say! was that 
gemper your husband — the gemper ’at came round 
the point and stayed such a time with you on the 
beach when I took uncle the message? ” 

Ruth looked very pale ; she rose up suddenly from 
the shingle. 

“ It is too cold for you sitting here; I am sure it is, 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


309 


Dorothy. Watty, see if you can find some oyster- 
shells, and we’ll show Aunt Dorothy how to play 
‘Dick, Duck, Drake.’” 

Oyster-shells proved to be scarce this morning. 
Dorothy said she was afraid to sit still any longer, 
though the air felt to her so much milder than it 
had been at Dalgarno that she could hardly fancy it 
was still January. Ruth helped her sister-in-law up 
the steep, rough shingle. When they reached the 
meadow they saw Watty’s nurse coming to seek her 
charge. The two ladies walked in silence to the 
cottage. 

Ruth was very angrj^ with herself. Her silence, 
she felt, must have led her sister-in-law to believe 
that the child had seen Michael with her on the beach. 
She had already gathered from a chance remark that 
Dorothy had been kept in complete ignorance of her 
estrangement from Michael. She could not confess 
the truth. She had no right to speak of her ac- 
quaintance with Mr. Bevington to her sister-in-law; 
that was Michael’s secret quite as much as it was 
hers. 

Dorothy, meanwhile, had received a shock. She 
felt that the illusion of her new relationship had lost 
its real appearance. “All is not gold that glitters,” 
the keen-witted woman said to herself. It seemed 
to her that if the gentleman Watty spoke of had been 
Michael Ruth would not have been so evidently dis- 
turbed. She could not help remembering Mrs. 
Buchan’s gossip about the pupil, but she fought 
loyally against her suspicions. She glanced at the 
girl’s noble face as Ruth walked beside her, and she 
noted the deep sadness in her eyes. The brave little 


310 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


woman said to herself that Ruth was Michael’s wife 
and she would trust her. There might have been 
some folly in the girl’s life, but there had not been 
sin. She was sure that Ruth was good and honest. 

The weeks passed on. Ruth began to recover her 
spirits in her sister-in-law’s bright companionship, 
and Dorothy grew every day fonder of her. She 
soon discovered that she could be useful to Ruth, and 
she began to help the girl with her French and to 
read German with her. There had been several 
heavy snow-falls, and even Ruth’s love of the open 
air yielded to weather ; and she welcomed this oppor- 
tunity of study. 

“It is like going back to old times,” and she told 
Dorothy how she had gone to school with her grand- 
father. They soon found out a sympathy in books, 
and Dorothy loved to listen to the girl’s pure, sweet 
singing. 

One day Dorothy said impulsively, “Nothing fits 
you so well as singing, Ruth. You look like an 
angel while you sing.” 

Ruth had sat singing song after song. At this 
she abruptly left the pianoforte. 

“Please do not say that. I am very unlike an 
angel. You will say so when you have known me a 
little longer.” 

There was a certain amount of vehemence in the 
girl’s voice; it surprised Dorothy, and yet it fasci- 
nated her. 

“ My first reading was the true one, ” she said to 
herself. “ I have been thinking lately she was cold 
and equable. I see she is just made for Michael; 
she has plenty of feeling, and yet I don’t believe 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


311 


she has as much love for him as she ought to 
have.” 

Dorothy sometimes thought that she had allowed 
this lovely creature to bewitch her. She had forgot- 
ten her resolution to be extremely wary and prudent 
in judging her young sister-in-law. The truth was 
that she had expected to find in Ruth a spirit of re- 
sistance, and instead of this the girl had lovingly 
welcomed her advice and assistance on many sub- 
jects, and had often deferred to her judgment. Dor- 
othy had brought several books with her. Ruth had 
taken possession of one of these, and had made it 
her daily study. 

“ I wish I had had that book of yours years ago,” 
the girl said when she rose up from singing. “I 
must buy it; I can never do without it again.” 

Dorothy looked at her affectionately. 

“ I will give it to you if you like it so much ; not 
that copy,” as Ruth kissed her and poured out her 
thanks ; “ Michael gave me that, and it is a dear old 
friend. He seems to like that book as much as you 
do.” 

Ruth turned away her head. It seemed as if Dor- 
othy was always reminding her of the future she so 
much dreaded, and which she had been trying of 
late to forget. 

The morning after this brought Ruth two letters, 
and she had been strangely silent since she read 
them. One was from her cousin Peggy Whishaw, 
reproaching Ruth for her continued silence ; for she 
had not answered their letters of condolence at the 
time of her father’s death. Peggy went on to say 
that her mother had been advised to go abroad, as 


312 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


one of her lungs was said to be seriously affected. 
Peggy told her cousin they should start so soon there 
would be no time for any leave-taking, and that if 
she wished to answer her letter she had better write 
to her, “Poste Restante, Bordighiera.” Ruth felt 
strangely desolate while she read. If the worst came 
to the worst she had always felt that she could have 
a home with her aunt. 

The other letter was from her husband, and its 
contents perplexed her. Michael asked her in the 
formal manner he had adopted how she and Dorothy 
got on together, and whether the air of Dolmouth 
suited his sister? He seemed, Ruth thought, polite 
but utterly indiflPerent. He also asked, still in the 
same way, whether she wished to stay on at Dol- 
mouth till his return, or whether in the event of the 
house being ready to receive her she would prefer to 
go with his sister to Purley? Ruth had been argu- 
ing with herself ever since she read the letter. She 
wished that Michael had left her in peace. She was 
sure that she could never be a good wife to him as 
long as she felt a fraction of love for Reginald Bev- 
ington. She tried hard not to allow herself to think 
of her young lover, but, for all that, now and then a 
vivid memory of the effect the sudden sight of him 
had created flashed into her mind with solemn warn- 
ing. How would it be if fancying herself reconciled 
to the idea of living with Michael she were to go 
home to Purley, and then just a chance meeting with 
Reginald should make her loathe her husband and 
long to leave him? 

Ruth had learned much more about herself since 
she had known Dorothy. She had discovered the 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


313 


startling fact that mere resolution will not avail to 
stem the tide of self-will, any more than a mere bar- 
rier set in the sand avails to break the force of the 
incoming waves, unless it be deeply sunk, and 
strongly guarded by other support than its own 
strength. Ruth had been saying her prayers all her 
life, but it seemed to her that till she knew Dorothy 
she had, with few exceptions, said her prayers for- 
mally — only as an act of duty. She had not gone to 
them for comfort and for help, with a sure belief 
that she should find both if comfort were good for 
her. 

She had not heard from Mr. Bevington since her 
father’s death. He had answered Philip Bryant’s 
letter of refusal, but she did not know what he had 
written. Her father had put the letter in the fire, 
and had had the reticence not to speak of it. Ruth 
had hoped that after a while Mr. Bevington would 
cure of his infatuation, and that then he would 
marry. At least she had told herself she hoped this ; 
but this morning, after she had read Michael’s letter, 
she had been greatly disturbed. She had seen in the 
newspaper that the engagement between Mr. Beving- 
ton and Miss Stretton was renewed, and that the 
marriage was to take place after Easter. The pain 
she suffered at this news warned Ruth that her love 
had not yet received its death blow. 

When she and Dorothy came in from their usual 
ramble by the sea Ruth had excused herself from her 
French reading. She had, she said, to put her ac- 
counts to settle ; and she had sat by herself in almost 
complete silence, adding up columns of figures, 
without paying much attention to the results. She 


314 


APPLBDORE FARM. 


felt utterly unhinged, discontented with herself, 
because she did not feel glad at what she knew was 
likely to prove her best safeguard. Now and then 
she wondered whether Dorothy had seen the an- 
nouncement, and whether she knew anything about 
Mr. Bevington. 

The days were so short — and Dorothy was afraid 
of being out late — that they went out again as soon 
as lunch was over, and dined in the evening. 

To-day, just as they were ready to start, Mrs. 
Rimell opened the door herself, and, with what 
seemed to Dorothy a stinging distinctness of tone, 
announced, A gentleman for Mrs. Clifford.” 

Dorothy looked up in joyful expectation of seeing 
her brother, and she recognized Mr. Bevington. She 
had often seen him ride through Parley, but had 
never till now had a near view of him. She was 
greatly impressed by his good looks, and by his easy 
grace of manner. 

Ruth had risen, and she stood pale and silent, her 
eyes fixed on him. 

He looked at Dorothy and bowed as he spoke. 

“I am afraid I am an intruder,” he said in his 
sweet, courteous voice, “ but I have come to see Mrs. 
Clifford on business.” Then he turned to Ruth and 
said stiffly, May I ask to see you alone? ” 

Before Ruth could speak Dorothy bowed and left 
the room. There seemed no other course open to her. 

There was a slight pause ; then Ruth moved toward 
the door to follow Dorothy. He placed himself in 
her way. 

“ Please stay ! ” he said gently. “ I will not keep 
you long. Your reception has already taught me 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


315 


that I am an intruder.” The increasing sadness in 
his voice softened her. I have longed to see you 
to assure you of my sympathy.” He paused, looking 
at her as if his eyes could not satisfy themselves with 
the sight of her loveliness. “ I felt deeply the loss of 
my dear old friend. It would have been kinder if 
you had let me see him once more.” Ruth turned 
away at this, and he went on : But I have another 
purpose in coming to-day; won’t you sit down and 
listen to me? ” She shook her head and remained 
standing. “You are all alone now, dearest Ruth; 
you have no one to study but yourself, and I have 
come to ask you to decide my future life. I put it 
in your hands. Think well before you answer.” 
He paused again, but Ruth seemed deaf. She re- 
mained standing quite still ; she did not look at him. 
He went on in a passionate tone, “You do not even 
listen, Ruth ; you are too unkind ! ” 

At this she raised her eyes, but she did not speak ; 
she seemed stupefied. 

“You have seen or heard — such news always 
travels fast — that I am going to marry Miss Stret- 
ton. It is for you to decide whether I shall do so.” 

“ I ! ” she said faintly, as if the word uttered itself 
against her will. 

“ Yes, only you can decide my life for me. Prom- 
ise to join your life to mine! There shall be no 
trouble, no scandal. I will take you away from 
England. We will live where no one knows us; 
and, darling, I will make you the happiest woman 
in the world.” 

His words had poured themselves out so rapidly 
that she could not stop them. Her silence had so 


316 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


encouraged him that, though he had come for the 
purpose of saying this, his own daring had surprised 
him. On his way he had decided to be extremely 
slow and cautious, so as to avoid alarming her ; as 
he ended he took her hand. 

She flung it from her with a violence that sur- 
prised him. 

“I want to understand,” she said in a hard, set 
voice, “whether this lady loves you? ” 

“I believe so, but what can that matter to us? I 
have vexed you by my abrupt proposal. Darling, I 
love you! You know how I love you, and you will 
forgive me ! ” 

She looked at him haughtily, with sparkling eyes. 

“You should ask Miss Stretton to forgive you. 
How dared you win her love and promise to marry 
her, and then come to me? ” Her words seemed to 
choke her; she stood gasping for breath, her eyes 
still flxed on his face. His terror lest he should lose 
her robbed him of all restraint. 

“I don’t care,” he said excitedly; “I will marry 
her if you think I ought to keep my promise, but 
that need make little difference to us. My darling, 
you will never refuse to make me happy? ” Ruth 
put out her hand to stop the passionate entreaty of 
his words; her eyes flamed with anger and her 
cheeks glowed; all the strength of her nature had 
risen in protest against him. 

“ Go ! ” she said, “ go at once ! or I may say out 
too plainly what I think of you.” 

Her determined manner cowed him, but he thought 
she looked more beautiful than ever. 

“ You are perhaps afraid of your duenna,” he said, 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


317 


with a vexed laugh^ but really, Ruth, it is too late 
to try heroics with me ; I understand you too well 
for that. You will cool down, sweet one, and then 
you will wish you had not sent me away. I will 
come at once, no matter when you send for me.” 

“ Go ! ” she said sternly. She rang the bell. 

‘^What! not even your hand?” he said as she 
turned away. I did not think you were so hard- 
hearted.” 

Ruth was quivering from head to foot, and when 
Mrs. Rimell opened the door her lodger’s flushed face 
excited the landlady’s curiosity. 

She had been upstairs with Miss Clifford ; and now, 
as she opened the street door for the visitor and then 
closed it behind him, she blew her nose with some 
vehemence, and smiled as she thought over this 
choice bit of news for her evening chat with Miss 
Tabitha Stamper. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


It had been evident to the landlady that the visitor 
was not a friend of Miss Clifford’s, for she had heard 
Dorothy go upstairs directly after his arrival. Be- 
sides, the gentleman had only asked for Mrs. Clifford. 
He had said, “You can say a gentleman for Mrs. 
Clifford.” Mrs. Rimell was anxious to know what 
Miss Clifford thought of this gentleman, and whether 
she considered him a suitable visitor for her beautiful 
yoang sister-in-law. It occurred to the careful land- 
lady that she ought to inquire whether the gentleman 
would stay to dinner, and that probably Miss Clifford 
would be able to tell her. It was a feeble excuse for 
intrusion, but Mrs. Rimell had dignified her greedy 
curiosity about her lodger’s affairs by the name of 
conscience. She told herself that it was her duty to 
relieve herself of responsibility by passing on her 
doubts of Ruth to one so nearly connected with the 
delinquent as Miss Clifford was; so she went up and 
knocked at Dorothy’s door. 

Miss Clifford looked surprised when she opened it, 
and she frowned when she heard the landlady’s 
question. 

“Certainly not,” she answered with decision. 
“The gentleman has only come on business.” 

Mrs. Rimell gave a doubtful, unpleasant smile. 
She liked Miss Clifford, but she did not choose to be 
snubbed without taking her revenge. 

318 


A 'PPLEDORE FARM. 


319 


I’m sure I beg pardon, ma’am, but the gentleman 
has been here before; and Mrs. Clifford seems so 
partial to him, I thought she would ask him to stay.” 

Dorothy had been annoyed as she thought over 
Mr. Bevington’s visit, and now her vexation turned 
on the landlady. It seemed to her that Mrs. Rimell 
had spoken spitefully. She took up the book she 
had put down at Mrs. Eimell’s entrance, by way of 
dismissing her, but the woman was bent on mischief. 

“ You see, ma’am,” she went on in her monotonous, 
crushed voice, “ in my position I see and hear and 
say nothing, so as not to get into trouble or give 
offence ; but I have got a conscience. Miss CliflPord, 
and, if you’ll believe me, till you spoke just now I 
had tried to persuade myself that those two were 
cousins, or some sort of relations, that had a right to 
be so fond of one another.” 

Dorothy gave a surprised stare, but Mrs. Rimell 
returned her glance in a humble, ill-used way, as if 
conscious that her efforts at service were not yet 
appreciated. 

^^Ido not understand you,” Dorothy said impul- 
sively, and then wished to recall her words, but it 
was too late. The landlady’s face smoothed with an 
expression of relief as she answered : 

“ Don’t you, ma’am? Then I’ll make my meaning 
plainer. You see, ma’am, you, being the sister of 
Mrs. Clifford’s husband, wouldn’t, so to say, be likely 
to fancy that anything could be amiss.” This was 
meant for a dig .at Dorothy, who, Mrs. Rimell con- 
sidered, had allowed herself to be got over by her 
handsome sister-in-law, and had regularly spoiled 
the girl. “ I don’t mean, ma’am, to say as there’s 


320 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


anything wrong — dear me, no ! but what I mean is, 
a showy-looking lady is bound to be more cautious 
than a plain one — isn’t she, ma’am? — because she 
attracts more notice. You know, ma’am, people will 
talk when they see a young swell like that alone 
with her on the beach, and so on, when it’s known 
she has a husband. You see, ma’am, I’d seen Mr. 
Clifford, your brother, ma’am ; I knew fast enough 
this one wasn’t the husband.” 

Dorothy’s head seemed to spin while she listened, 
and her pride was deeply mortified that she had 
given this woman the opportunity of speaking against 
Ruth. It seemed to Dorothy that the landlady was 
in earnest, and that she felt it her duty to speak out ; 
but the troubled sister felt that for Michael’s sake 
she must shield Ruth from any possible scandal. 
She forced herself to smile at Mrs. Rimell, and thereby 
shocked that righteous-minded woman. 

‘‘I do not know all Mrs. Clifford’s friends,” she 
said with more stiffness than usual, “ and therefore 
this gentleman is possibly an old friend of Mr. Bry- 
ant’s ; it is quite natural that he should come and see 
Mrs. Clifford. I am sure you mean well, Mrs. Rimell, 
but pray don’t trouble yourself about this. There is 
no need. I am sorry you have made such a mistake. ” 

Mrs. Rimell stared hard, but Dorothy was on 
guard ; she looked perhaps rather contemptuous, but 
she did not seem troubled. 

The landlady bent her head and opened the door ; 
then she came back and closed it behind her. 

“ I ask pardon, ma’am, if I have been too free, but 
I have made no mistake. You see, ma’am, I watches 
and waits, and I’ve seen what I’ve seen.” 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


821 


This time Dorothy laughed. 

I were you I wouldn’t think myself infallible, 
Mrs. Rimell. That rule of yours to see and hear, 
and say nothing, is a safe one to stick to; and I’ll 
tell you something I once heard a very good man 
say, ‘Never believe anything you hear and only half 
of what you see. ’ ” 

She turned her back on the landlady, as if to show 
her that she considered the interview ended. 

Left alone, Dorothy leaned back in her chair as 
cold and as white as a stone. Already the remem- 
brance of the child’s words had flashed on her. She 
remembered, too, how suddenly pale Ruth had grown 
that day on the beach, and how abruptly she had 
changed the subject. Dorothy hid her face in her 
hands. She had braved it out with Mrs. Rimell, but 
alone by herself she felt stupid with horror. She did 
not believe, she could not, that this girl whom she 
loved so dearly, quite as much for herself as because 
she was Michael’s wife, had been unfaithful to her 
husband. 

And then the very thought of Michael set Doro- 
thy’s anger in a flame against him. What had he 
been about? Why had he left this attractive young 
creature all these dreary weeks alone in this dull 
place? It was plain that there had been an attach- 
ment between the pupil and Ruth, but now that she 
had seen the girl Dorothy considered the fact of such 
an attachment with different eyes. The poor child 
had fallen in love with this good-looking young fel- 
low, and no doubt he was very fascinating. Seeing 
him every day, and living under the same roof, it 
really was not to be wondered at. Dorothy thought 
21 


822 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


it was wonderful that such a girl, with truth written 
on her face, could have brought herself to marry 
Michael while she still loved Mr. Bevington. 

His visits to Dolmouth seemed to prove that she 
did really care for him. At this last reflection Dor- 
othy’s anger flamed up against Ruth. The girl had 
certainly, by word or look, never given his sister 
cause to believe that she cared for Michael, but 
Dorothy wondered how Ruth could have done such 
a wrong as to marry a man whom almost any girl 
would have been glad to accept, when she had no 
love to give him. 

“Michael must have found it out,” she thought, 
“ and that caused the estrangement ; but even then he 
might have put his pride in his pocket, and he might 
have won her in spite of herself. Don’t tell me! 
Michael could win any girl he chose, if he only 
thought it worth his while. In this case he must 
think so, and I firmly believe he is faint-hearted be- 
cause he considers himself inferior to that young 
sprig. Bless the dear fellow’s heart! He loves 
Ruth, but he certainly don’t understand her if he 
thinks a full grown woman like that could be satis- 
fied with a mere boy. Young Bevington’s only a 
boy ; I could see it as I looked at him — a weak boy ! ” 

She made all the excuse she could for Ruth, but 
she could not conquer the anger she felt toward her. 
She was Michael’s wife, and she had no right to re- 
ceive the visits of an old lover, especially when she 
was living away from her husband. 

“ Oh dear ! ” Dorothy felt oppressed and self-pitiful. 
“I shan’t say a word to Michael; but it is plainly 
my duty to tell Ruth what I think. I — I’d sooner — 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


323 


well, never mind what I’d sooner do; I’ve got to do 
this. If we quarrel we shall have to part, I fancy; 
and that will trouble Michael.” 

There were sounds below ; the street door opened 
and shut. 

“I will wait,” Dorothy thought ; ‘^she will surely 
come to me and explain this visit ! ” 

She waited till she became so cold that she had to 
wrap herself in her fur cloak. At las,t she rose up 
and went downstairs. 

It is the hardest thing I was ever called on to 
do,’^ she said, but it is for Michael and I must do it.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


It was a clear, frosty morning. There had been 
hoar frost earlier, and the hedge twigs glistened like 
silver. As Ruth took the road leading to Little 
Marshfield, every blade of grass beside the way seemed 
doubled in size by its sparkling white covering. 

Ruth had left the train at the station about a mile 
beyond Little Marshfield ; she was going to ask Sally 
Voce to take her in, but she did not wish to be seen 
at Ohurch-Marshfield; and in this little village she 
knew no one except her mother’s old servant. 

Dorothy had asked her to account for her acquaint- 
ance with Mr. Bevington, and she had refused to 
answer Dorothy’s questions; they had quarrelled and 
had agreed to part. Dorothy had advised Ruth to 
put herself under her aunt’s protection until Michael 
came back from his Austrian journey. 

Dorothy added that as she was gcfing back to Scot- 
land she could leave Dolmouth at the same time. 
Ruth had not had time to think since she parted from 
Mr. Bevington. The shock of his baseness had made 
her callous to other feelings. She remembered dimly 
that her aunt must have started, and that she could 
not go to her; but to her it did not matter what 
became of her; she longed to get away and hide her- 
self. When Dorothy assured her that she should 
not mention Mr. Bevington’s visit to Michael, Ruth 
answered haughtily that she was free to speak of it 
334 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


325 


to whomsoever she pleased. Your opinion, or any- 
one’s opinion, on the subject is completely indifferent 
to me,” the unhappy girl said. 

She had left Dolmouth with Dorothy, and they 
had travelled together in silence till they reached 
the junction where Miss Clifford had to change. 
Ruth remained cold and hard, even at parting. She 
was in a sort of dumb despair. The last illusion of 
her love had been torn from her, but for the present 
she could not even think. At last she began to con- 
sider her plans. She had been travelling for several 
hours, and she knew she was a long way north of 
Little Marshfield. Before she left Dolmouth she had 
thought of going to Sally Voce, though it had seemed 
unnecessary to say so to her sister-in-law. She had 
taken her ticket to Lancaster, but she decided to 
leave the train at the next station and try to get back 
that night. She soon found that this was impossible, 
so she dined at this large station, and then waited 
for the night-train. 

She had been travelling a good part of the night, 
and she looked very forlorn and dejected as she 
walked along the ice-bound road. Dorothy had 
doubted her, and had therefore, she considered, no 
right to her confidence ; but Ruth had resolved that 
she would have no more secrets from her husband, 
and she had begun a letter to him last night while 
she waited for the train. 

Her heart beat quickly, as one after another she 
recognized familiar landmarks. She had not often 
walked so far out as this, but she had often driven 
her father along this road on their way from New- 
bridge. 


326 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


She had left her luggage at the station till she 
should send for it. She carried a good-sized bag, 
with the things she needed for daily use. 

Though she had been so much indulged and cared 
for, Ruth was never helpless ; and since she went to 
Dolmouth her self-dependence had largely develoj^ed. 
And now as she walked along she wished she could 
find some means of living without being so wholly 
dependent on her husband. This dependence galled 
her ; she could not make any return to Michael for 
the goodness he had shown to her and to her father. 
It galled her more than ever now that she was better 
able to consider her treatment of him from his point 
of view. It might have been different, she thought, 
if he had forgiven her ; then she could have asked 
him to pardon her and to let her try to show her pen- 
itence. But his last letter had made her feel that 
she was still unforgiven. Michael had been very 
liberal to her, and since her father’s death she had 
tried to save; so that she had sufficient money to 
carry her on for some months, supposing “that her 
letter should fail to reach her husband. She had 
directed Mrs. Rimell to forward any letter that might 
come for her to the old house in Broad Street. 

A few steps farther brought her in sight of the 
two inns. Their signboards were creaking as though 
the brisk, cold air affected their joints with rheumatic 
twinges. At the opening of the lane the little brook 
was sparkling and babbling merrily, though its fur- 
ther side, under the shade of the thick-growing hedge, 
was still encumbered with dull, broken ice-flakes. 
Ruth looked on to the left, and her face cleared when 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


327 


she saw a thin gray spiral of smoke going lazily up 
from Mrs. Voce’s chimney. 

The girl smiled, and she sighed with desperate 
resignation. She knew she should have to listen to 
many a sermon from Sally on the subject of being 
away from her husband. She also knew that she 
should be tormented by the old woman’s questions; 
but then, if Sally was inquisitive, she was not a 
chatter-box ; she would not gossip about her young 
mistress’ troubles. 

I shall feel at home with Sally,” the girl thought, 
as she opened the little gate. For a moment it seemed 
to Ruth as if her troubles had slipped away, and that 
she was again a child, petted and cared for by the 
old servant. 

The little front garden looked bare, but it was free 
from weeds and litter. There was a plot of Scotch 
kale, a rather brown and nipped colony of pot-herbs, 
and a vigorous growth of horseradish. At the sound 
of footsteps on the slaty path a little boy came to the 
door and stood there whittling a stout stick with a 
knife. 

“Why, George! is that you? How you have 
grown ! ” Ruth cried out, thinking what a contrast 
the strongly-built, red-cheeked, coarse-looking boy 
made to delicate little Watty, who had cried and 
clung round her neck when she said good-by to him. 

George looked at her insolently. He hitched up 
one of his broad shoulders, his head being already a 
good deal sunk between them. 

“ Don’t know yer, ” he said roughly. “ You haven’t 
no call to come in grandmother’s garden.” 


328 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


The door opened more widely, and Sally pt^red 
from behind it. 

She reddened at sight of Ruth, but she came for- 
ward with a forced smile on her broad face. Sally 
always grew fatter in winter, because she lived more 
in-doors. Her eyes seemed to be mere slits, as she 
fixed them on the girl. 

“ How do you do, Sally? I want you to take me 
in for a few weeks.” 

^ The old woman’s face darkened; her eyes became 
shifty and restless. She had been carefully noting 
Ruth’s tired face, her drooping eyelids and loosened 
hair, also the want of freshness and daintiness she 
had been used to see in her ; and she mentally decided 
that the stories that had reached her had been 
true. 

She turned suddenly on George and gave Turn a 
slight cuff on the cheek. 

Get in with you ! ” she said. “ Go and weed the 
back garden; ’tain’t half done yet.” 

“Bother! I ain’t goin’ to be cuffed to it,” the boy 
said rudely. “Matter o’ that, it ain’t much hurt 
you can do with that fat hand o’ yourn. I moind 
yer tongue more’n yer hand, grandmother.” 

Sally took him by the collar, dragged him back 
into the house, and shut the door upon him. 

“ I beg pardon, Miss Ruth — I forget myself— Mrs. 
Clifford, I should say, but I was took unawares, not 
expecting to see you. Bless you, ma’am, I’ve got 
the house full, every comer of it. I’ve got Lucy and 
her boy, both of ’em ; and she, poor gal, that ill that 
I havn’t a minute to call my own ; she needs so much 
’tendance, she do. I’m sure I’m very sorry, more 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


329 


sorry that you should be asking for a lodging in a 
poor place like this, ma’am.” 

Ruth had expected this remonstrance, and she 
smiled. 

There’s no help for it, Sally, till Mr. Clifford comes 
back from abroad. Miss Clifford and I have been 
staying together at the sea, but now she has gone 
home again to her eldest brother, and my own home 
at Purley” — the words sounded strange to her as she 
said them — “is still in the hands of work-people.” 

Sally tried to look sympathetic, but felt unbeliev- 
ing. She knew fast enough there was some good 
reason for this separation between husband and wife. 
She had had her suspicions at Appledore, and she 
had been told on good authority that Mr. Clifford had 
not started on this last foreign journey till after Mr. 
Bryant’s death; and it would have been only natural 
if he had taken his wife with him, unless he had 
something against her. Sally decided that if a side 
must be taken in this business, she should stick by 
Mr. Clifford. He had done her many a good turn, 
and no doubt would do her many another ; she was 
not going to take his wife’s part against him. 

Her continued silence surprised Ruth. The girl 
held herself very erect as she spoke. 

“ If you cannot take me in to sleep, Sally, I fancy 
you can get a bed for me in the village, and I can 
board with you.” 

Sally looked solemn, and shook her large head. 

“ You couldn’t think of doing such a thing, ma’am ! 
Only fancy what Mr. Clifford would say, and how 
you would set people talking! Why, ma’am, 
shouldn’t you go and stay at the Church-Marshfield 


830 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


Hotel? I’ll get a lad to carry, your bag; it’s a deal 
too heavy for you, ma’am.” 

Ruth looked the woman direct in the eyes, and 
Sally’s fell under the masterful glance. Ruth was 
very angry, but she knew it was wiser not to quarrel 
with Sally. 

“ I don’t know what Mr. Clifford would say to such 
advice as that, Sally. Fancy my going to a hotel 
by myself ! That would certainly set people talking, 
and now that I am alone I do not wish to go among 
strangers. I wanted to come to you so that I might 
be as private and retired as possible. Can’t you think 
of a neighbor who can let me have a couple of rooms?” 

Sally’s small eyes blinked; she began to fear she 
had made a mistake. If Mrs. Clifford was, as she 
had been told, cast off by her husband, she would, 
the old woman fancied, hardly dare to speak in this 
way. For all that, Sally would not alter her deter- 
mination. She had said she would not be mixed up 
in this affair of Mrs. Clifford’s, and she meant it. 
She did not want to quarrel with Miss Ruth, but she 
must get rid of her the best way she could. 

“ There ain’t nobody here, ma’am, as have got a 
fit place for you to set down in. If Lucy, now, 
weren’t such a poor ailing creetur — only half alive, 
one might say — I’d turn her out to make room for 
you; but Lor’, there! I know you wouldn’t hear of 
such doings, ma’am. I did hear as George Bird had 
a room to spare and was wanting a lodger, but that 
was maybe seven weeks ago ; and since then I haven’t 
heard a word from Appledore. The new tenant had 
fallen ill when last I heard, and there was a talk of 
his giving up the farm to tho owner.” 


APPLEDOBE FARM. 


331 


Ruth’s heart fluttered so that she could hardly 
speak. She had thought of going over one day to 
have a look at the old place, but the idea of being 
able to live close to it had not occurred to her. 

“Very well, I will go on there at once,” she said; 
“I dare say it will do, perhaps. Sally, you will 
manage to send my bag over to Appledore before 
evening. I expect I shall do very well with the 
Birds.” 

Ruth had inward qualms as she thought of Mrs. 
Bird’s shiftless ways and her unruly children. She 
knew, however, that the woman was clean, and she 
hoped she should be able to put up with the accom- 
modations. 

“Good-by, Sally!” she said; “don’t forget the 
bag. ” 

Sally’s face broadened into a smile, and she be- 
came suddenly hospitable. 

“ Lord sake. Miss Ruth ! you wouldn’t put such a 
slight on me as not to eat or drink in the place afore 
you sets on walking again ! Come in, do ’ee now, 
ma’am, and rest ye a bit. We’ll be gettin’ dinner 
in a hour or so.” 

Ruth shook her head. 

“ No, thank you, Sally, I’ll not have anything; I’ll 
go on at once. I’ll rest when I get to the end of my 
journey. Good-day ! I hope Lucy will be better.” 

Ruth hardly waited for the old woman’s assurance 
that the bag should be at Appledore almost as soon 
as she would; she hurried to the gate, and went 
down beside the sparkling water till she once more 
reached the road. 

And then, when she was quite out of sight of the 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


village and could see only the hard, white road before 
her, with its stiff hedges on either side, Ruth broke 
down and cried bitterly. She shed perhaps the bit- 
terest tears of her young life. She had thought Sally 
Voce inquisitive, and she had sometimes feared that 
the woman preferred rich people ; but Ruth had never 
thought that the old servant would prove ungrateful 
to those whose bread she had eaten, and who had 
done so much for her in her troubled days. The girl 
knew that her father had urged Mr. Stokesay to make 
a certain provision for his housekeeper. 

will not think of her” [she wiped her tears 
roughly away]. “Trouble seems to be following 
me. I suppose Dorothy will think I deserved it. I 
dare say I do, but that does not make it easier to 
bear.” 

She presently felt so tired that she sat down on a 
heap of stones beside the road. She had bought 
some sandwiches at the last town the train stopped 
at, and she began to eat these while she rested. A 
lark was singing blithely overhead, as if he thought 
it a cheerful sight to contemplate this weary, tear- 
stained face. Ruth looked up, but she could not at 
first see him against the fleecy clouds overhead. She 
noticed the buds on the hedge, and wondered whether 
they would be checked later on. She sighed. 

“ It will be a long time before I can feel hopeful,” 
she said. “I could not have eaten at Sally’s; I felt 
too wretched. I believe her bread would have 
choked me.” 

She felt very tired when she rose up to resume her 
walk. The way seemed longer than usual ; yet as 
she went on the old familiar landmarks soothed her. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


33^ 


She felt at home again as she recognized Farmer 
Jones’ gate, which her father had once dared her to 
climb when she was a tiny girl; and there was Mrs. 
White’s larch shrubbery, with its as yet unfolded 
tassels of blossom. How well she remembered Mrs. 
White, and the huge slices of seed-cake the kind 
woman used to give her ! 

I wonder who has the place now,” she thought. 

By the time she reached Church-Marshfield every 
one was at dinner. Smoke was going up from most 
of tlie chimneys, and savory smells floated out into the 
air as she passed the few houses that lay between her 
and Appledore. 

It seemed to Ruth as she walked along that the 
road was peopled with ghosts ; her father was there, 
and her mother, and her grandfather. As she passed 
his deserted cottage she hardly dared to look at the 
masses of red berries on its dusty front, she so 
strongly expected to see the old scholar standing at 
the gate watching for her in his long-skirted robo. 
Michael’s face came among these phantoms. She 
remembered how much her grandfather had liked to 
talk to him, and how more than once Mr. Stokesay 
had told her she might read any book that Mr. Clif- 
ford lent her, because his taste might be trusted. 
Her own early thoughts and fancies came back in a 
crowd from those past years ; the road seemed to re- 
veal fresh ones, till now forgotten, with every turn 
it took. She remembered Michael’s constant visits, 
and how she used to look forward to them. Her 
Cousin Peggy had even joked her about her frequent 
mention of Mr. Clifford in her letters. 

“If he had asked me then,” she said; “before I 


834 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


knew anything about love, I believe I should have 
said ‘yes’ cheerfully.” 

It was not the first time this remembrance had 
come to Ruth ; she had thought of it before she de- 
cided to accept Michael; but at that time she had 
told herself that nothing in the world could make her 
sorry that she had been loved by Reginald Bevington ; 
his love had then seemed a possession to be thankful 
for ; she should never have known the real happiness 
of love if he had not come to Appledore. These 
thoughts stung her as she walked. A cloud had 
settled on the vision that had* seemed so bright ; it 
was more than a cloud. R.uth felt with a shiver that 
there was a smear on the memory of her love. Every 
day since his last visit to Dolmouth the unhapjiy 
girl’s conviction had become stronger that Mr. Bev- 
ington had never been honest in his x>rofessions ; ho 
had meant her ruin, not her happiness. His ideas 
of love and hers were, she now knew, as opposite as 
light and darkness. And yet, although she had tried 
to think the worst of him, she did not hate him ; she 
excused him on the ground of her own blind weak- 
ness. In her utter ignorance she had led him to 
believe that his love was welcome, when it had been 
only an insult. It was, perhaj^s, natural that she 
should not make allowance for his weakness. It 
seemed to her that he had never thought of her as 
his future wife. 

She had reached the gate that led to the Mill Val- 
ley, and she hurried past it with a shudder at her 
own heedless folly. A few’ minutes later she was 
looking down from the road across the home mead 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


335 


on to tlie moss-crowned tiles and the twisted chim- 
ney-stacks of ApjDledore Farm. 

Ruth’s eyes filled till her sight was completely 
dimmed. She wondered whether trouble would meet 
her here again, and whether the Birds would prove 
themselves as inhospitable as Sally Voce had been. 
Hitherto she had only met a couple of tramps, male 
and female, on the road ; and the man had such an 
unpleasant leer as he looked at her that Ruth thought 
she would smooth her hair and straighten the set of 
her hat before she presented herself to the Birds. The 
thorn-bush at the corner of the lane, which had often 
come in her way when she was watching for her 
father, now served as a welcome screen behind which 
she strove to tidy her hair and to remove all trace of 
disorder from her general appearance. 

She could not remove the look of fatigue from her 
worn face, but she resumed the little veil which she 
had taken off when she quitted the train ; she fancied 
that this screen would give her a married look and 
would impose on the Birds. Their cottage lay be- 
hind the farm -yard, and she had meant to go round 
by the road to the farm- entrance; but as she tried to 
pass the lane she found that instinctively her feet 
moved toward it ; it was not far to the house, and she 
could easily come back again to the road. She 
reached the bottom of the lane and stood at the gate. 
The flower border was bare, except for a tuft of 
Christmas roses near the porch. Over the porch 
itself, and spreading over the adjacent house-wall, 
was a profusion of pale yellow jasmine blossom 
against the leafless green stems. Ruth looked up at 


336 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


the windows ; they were all closed except that of the 
bedroom over the porch. She looked quickly away ; 
she remembered that had been Reginald Bevington’s 
room. 

All at once a sharp cry startled her. A child came 
running forward, stumbled and fell on his face on 
the rough gravel in front of the porch. 

While Ruth hesitated whether she should open the 
gate and help the little frightened creature Mrs. Bird’s 
head was put out of the porch-room window. Her 
frown indicated that she was going to scold the 
unlucky squaller, and then as her mouth opened, full 
of words, she recognized her young mistress, and she 
smiled with hearty satisfaction. 

“Mercy ’on us!” she cried; “I’m proud to see ’ee, 
ma’am. To think o’ that, now! Here, Gearge! 
Gearge! Where be ’ee, man? Coom here! coom 
quick, I tell ’ee! Here be Miss Bryant as was. 
Missus Clifford as is; an’ she be a-standin’ at the 
gate.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


George Bird did not trouble his head about poli- 
tics as much as many of his fellows did, but he must 
have had an unconscious and early belief in conser- 
vatism. He had lived on Appledore Farm from a 
boy of twelve, even then big-boned and strongly- 
made; and except that he had grown bigger and 
handsomer, the difference betwen a bull-calf and the 
full-grown animal, there had been no other change 
in him. He had put aside his “ lamin’,” as he called 
it, when he left school to begin farm-work. He 
never tried to read even the local newspaper, though 
his wife spelled it over diligently on Sunday evenings 
when the children were in bed. He rarely went be- 
yond the farm, nor did he believe in any very 
modern improvement with respect to farming. That 
which had done for his father would do for him. 
The only matter that roused the big fellow out of 
his ordinary serenity was his dislike to new-fangled 
‘^nossions,” as he called Mr. Clifford’s advice on sev- 
eral points, chiefly of a sanitary nature, with regard 
to the care of the stock ; for of late years, since Mr. 
Bryant’s troubles and the consequent diminution of 
hands at the farm, George Bird had become a sort of 
Jack-of-all-trades, and everything was more or less 
in disorder. 

The tenant who had succeeded Philip Bryant had 
been obnoxious to Bird. He was a young man full 
22 337 


338 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


of the last new ideas, having been educated at the 
Agricultural College. The hopeless state of the 
drainage and the ruinous condition of the fences and 
outbuildings at Appledore had so completely disen- 
chanted him with the place that he soon gave notice 
to quit. He vrrote to the absentee landlord that Ap- 
pledore was not what it had been represented to be, 
and he threatened law proceedings unless the neces- 
sary improvements were either immediately made or 
a half year’s exemption from rent was allowed him. 
The landlord was exploring in Central Africa, and 
the sleepy agent, who had neglected to inspect the 
place before he accepted this new tenant, thought it 
was safer to release him than to incur, till his em- 
ployer returned, what might prove a serious outlay. 
He came over and told Bird that his wife must keep 
the house aired and clean till further orders. The 
tenant was extremely glad to be free of his bargain. 

Susan Bird told her husband that the easiest way 
for her to do her duty by the house would be to move 
out of the cottage, which had already become too 
small for her yearly increasing brood, and to set up 
her household gods in the farmhouse. She had, 
however, been wise enough to occupy only the kitch- 
ens and the servants’ bedrooms, and it had occurred 
to Bird, who highly approved his wife’s happy idea, 
that he might make a few pounds if he could find a 
lodger to keep the best rooms aired through the 
winter. 

He had gone on hoping to hear of an inmate, but 
without success. Mrs. Clifford’s arrival had there- 
fore seemed a special providence. It gave him a 
real excuse for remaining in his comfortable quarters. 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


339 


Now and then he had felt a trifle uneasy lest the rec- 
tor should hear of what had happened and call him 
to account for his residence in the farmhouse. He 
had more than once thought of writing to ask leave 
from the agent, but writing had always been a toil, 
and he was completely out of practice. He did not 
choose to ask a neighbor to write for him ; that would 
at once betray that he v/as living at the farm without 
leave. So when Ruth came, and appeared to take it 
for granted that the agent had put Bird in possession 
till a new tenant could be found, his liking for his 
old master’s daughter came back, with an added 
sense of indebtedness for the weekly payment she 
bestowed on his wife. 

Susan Bird looked on her handsome husband as a 
sage, and she was quite of his opinion when he said 
that Mrs. Clifford was a very ill-used young lady in 
being left to go about and fend for herself. He did 
not take this or anything else to heart; it maybe 
that in George Bird’s composition heart had become 
an almost unknown quality. He was amiable, he 
thought his wife and children better than those of 
his neighbors, he was good-natured and fairly sober; 
but he loved money with a passion that absorbed 
other feelings. 

To-day, as he stood in the farm-yard slowly chew- 
ing the bit of straw that rarely left his lips, the 
brilliant sunshine lighting up his tawny mass of hair 
and beard, so curly that the upper, thinner part 
shone like gold in the full light, while the tangle 
below made a rich brown background, he looked a 
fine specimen of an English peasant. So much of 
his face as showed under his broad -leaved straw hat 


340 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


was vividly rich in color ; his brown-red eyebrows 
went well with the rest, and as he stood facing the 
sunshine they came heavily down over his sleepy, 
very brown eyes. 

He was proud of the notice Mrs. Clifford took of 
his children, and he liked to hear her talk. “ She’s 
got such a pleasant, cheery voice,” he told Susan, 

“ she makes a fellow feel all right by the way sire 
speaks to him.” He still considered her his mis- 
tress, and was willing to take orders from her, though 
he knew her connection with Appledore was at an 
end. 

Something that was almost gratitude sounded in 
his voice as he answered the proposal Mrs. Clifford 
had just made. 

“Ye’re mottal kind, ma’am, I’m sure. ’Tis a 
change for the little lass, an’ change is mostly what, 
they looks fur. When I was a lad change, so to say, 
wasn’t thought on. I hope as you finds Sukey duti- 
ful and — and ” He paused to find words for what 

he wanted to say» “Askin’ your pardon, ma’am, 
doesn’t you think as gals does as well wi’out books 
as with ’em? ” 

Ruth laughed so heartily that he hung his head 
and looked bashful. 

“Well, now,” she said, “you’re the last man. 
Bird, who ought to say that. See what a hard- 
working, good wife you have got, and yet she is 
fond of reading.” 

Bird grinned till he looked like a handsome satyr. 

“I’ll tell ye the secret o’ that hard work, ma’am. 
Afore we was married Sue was alius too fond of 
readin’, she wur; an’ I saw it. She brought a store 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


841 


o’ books when she. come to me, a dozen or more. 
Well, ma’am, one day when I knowed she were busy 
I up an’ took they books — tales they was, and such — 
an’ I chucked ’em on a heap o’ stuff what the master 
was a-burnin’ out yonder,” he pointed to the hill 
behind the house. “They wasn’t long burnin’, 
ma’am,” he ended with a chuckle. 

Ruth looked very grave and severe. 

“That was cruel. Sue had a right to be very 
angry.” 

He looked puzzled. 

“Do’ee think that, ma’am? Mebbe ladies has 
time for readin’ and so on, but not Sue. Bless her ! 
she whined a bit, an’ I says, ‘look you here, my 
gal, I don’t mean it onkind, but they books were a 
timptation. Don’t ’ee read no books, ’cept the Bible 
o’ Sundays, an’ once a week I’ll get ’ee a sight o’ 
the newspaper. ’ ” 

Ruth turned her back on him; this eldest girl, 
Sukey, had become crippled since the Bryants had 
left Appledore, by a fall from a swing. 

Sukey had met with this accident several weeks 
before Ruth’s arrival. The child inherited her 
mother’s love of reading, and she cried bitterly 
when she learned that she could never hope to go to 
school again. The doctor said her only chance of 
recovery was in lying stretched out flat for a year or 
more on the board with which the rector’s kindness 
had provided her. A year seemed an eternity to 
Sukey, and she had turned her face to the wall and 
refused to be comforted. 

Ruth had found in this afflicted child a true angel 
of peace. 


m 


APFLEDOEE FAR3L 


After the first solitary evening spent in the old 
parlor, peopled by so many memories, and where 
even the old furniture helped to remind her of past 
joy and past suffering, Ruth had told herself that 
she could not stay at Appledore ; she would not even 
finish the letter she had begun to her husband. 

In the morning,she had gone into the house-place. 
Below the sunny window in which Ruth used to dry 
lier herbs and rose petals lay poor, pale Sukey, who 
had been outwardly just such another embodiment 
of sunshine as her father, changed as it were from a 
flower into a stone, her pale face framed by her loose 
tawny-colored hair. Ruth was strongly impressed ; 
she bent over the sick girl and kissed her. 

Later in the day she said to Susan Bird, whose 
eyes filled with tears when she looked at her helpless 
child, “ See here, Susan, I want to do something to 
help you. Can’t you trust me with Sukey? I’ll sit 
with her and try to cheer her up a bit while the 
others are at school.” 

Ruth had been doing this for several weeks past. 
The weather had been fine and had tempted her to 
take longer walks, but she had not neglected Sukey. 
The child’s heavy eyes always brightened at the 
sight of her friend, and the treasures which Ruth 
brought in from her walks — a few wild blossoms, 
richly-colored leaves, sometimes a curious beetle, and 
once a sick chicken for Sukey to nurse back to health 
— all these novelties brought the breath of outside 
life to the weary girl and cheered her. At first Ruth 
had forced her own spirits for the sake of poor, frac- 
tious Sukey, who still at times complained loudly 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


343 


about the hardship of her lot; but soon, and almost 
in spite of herself, Ruth’s spirits rose again. The 
children, noisy as they were, amused her by their 
quaint ways as she played with them. She was 
growing more like the Ruth Bryant of her girlish 
days than she had been since she went away to nurse 
her Aunt Whishaw. She had found an object in 
life, some one to whom her care was really neces- 
sary, and who loved her. 

This morning, Sukey had seemed so much better 
that her friend fancied she might begin to learn 
again. Ruth had discovered that the worst sting of 
Sukey’s sorrow lay in the fact that her younger sis- 
ters would all pass her, and that she who had never 
yet lost a place should be left behind — “ the dunce of 
the family.” 

Ruth looked over the child’s school-books and 
found that a few new ones were needed, and when 
she heard that Bird was going into Newbridge she 
asked him to purchase these books for her, and 
thereby elicited his ideas on the subject of female 
schooling. 

Ruth had written to her husband to announce her 
arrival at Appledore. In her letter she told him of 
Mr. Bevington’s visit, and also of Dorothy’s depart- 
ure, but she did not tell him of his sister’s suspicions. 
She had grown to think that she had judged Dorothy 
hardly, and that if she herself had been less proud 
Dorothy would not have gone away and left her 
alone. She had received one letter from Michael, 
which he addressed to Dolmouth. It was evident he 
had not heard from her. He wrote in some trouble ; 


344 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


the journey had taken far longer than he counted on, 
and now his friend had fallen ill at a small town on 
the Danube, where the accommodation was so second- 
rate that Michael could not possibly leave him behind. 
Of course the length of the delay would depend on 
his friend’s recovery, but he said he could not reach 
England nearly as soon as he had hoped. 

Ruth had little time now in which to feel dull or 
lonely. She had another charge besides Sukey. She 
had a good notion of cookery, and she was trying 
hard to improve Mrs. Bird’s very primitive culinary 
methods. Ruth had a cookery-book, and she per- 
suaded the woman that she would find it interesting, 
and useful too, to study this sometimes by way of 
change from the weekly newspaper to which she was 
so devoted ; and as success in cookery is sure to bring 
its own reward, the poor woman soon grew delighted 
and surprised with her improved power of roasting 
and boiling, in place of the incessant stews to which 
she had hitherto doomed her husband and her chil- 
dren. Bird applauded the change by smacking his 
lips, when he came in from work, at the sight of his 
improved rations; but he shook his head at Susan’s 
efforts at pastry making on the new lines. 

“ ’Tis well enough. Sue,” he said, with his mouth 
full of rhubarb pie, on the evening of his return from 
a second visit to Newbridge; ’tis all as should be 
for folks like Miss Ruth an’ such as she, but gi’ me 
paste as ’ull stan’ a good bite. This sort o’ trumpery 
goes nigh to melt as soon as ’tis in yer mouth ; there 
beant no stay for the teeth in ’t; ’twould suit the 
new married folk rarely.” 

He had been telling his wife during supper the 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


345 


talk he had heard about Mr. Bevington’s wedding, 
the bride’s home, Strettoii Castle, being only a few 
miles from the town. 

’Tis a splendid place, they do say, an’ she a only 
child, a-rollin’ in money. My word, our young gen- 
tleman have knowed how to take his pigs to a good 
market ! ” Bird sighed as he filled his pipe. 

Susan sat meditating. In that June the year be- 
fore last various little things had made her think 
that Mr. Bevington and Miss Ruth cared for one 
another. . It was she who had talked about it to 
Sally Voce. It therefore seemed to her a fortunate 
piece of news that the gentleman had followed Mrs. 
Clifford’s example and had taken a wife. 

I thought the weddin’ was over,” she said; “I 
don’t read the paper as reg’lar as I used to, but 
I saw the marriage was goin’ to be sooner than 
this.” 

“It wur so,” he answered, without removing his 
pipe ; “ it were mebbe three weeks or more ago ; ’tis 
an old story by now. ’Tis the cornin’ ’ome which 
has set ’em talkin’ again; that is to be looked for 
sooner than was expected. Lord! there will be 
doin’s!” 

Susan cleared away the supper, washed up, and 
then sat down at the end of the long kitchen table to 
darn the family socks and stockings. Ruth had tried 
to teach the hard-worked mother that darning stock- 
ings was on the whole a more profitable occupation 
than knitting them. 

While she sat drawing out her long needleful of 
gray worsted from one side to the other of a gaping 
hole Susan wondered whether Mrs. Clifford had heard 


346 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


of the marriage, and whether it would not be kind to 
tell her about it. 

Next morning when she took in breakfast to Ruth 
Mrs. Bird ventured to say she hoped the new-married 
folks would have it fine for their home-coming ; had 
Mrs. Clifford heard that they were coming home on 
Saturday to Stretton Castle, and that old Mr. and 
Mrs. Bevington were coming there to meet their son 
and his bride? 

“ I hope the weather will be fine,” Ruth said. 

She was reading ; she did not raise her eyes from 
her book, and poor simple Susan was left in doubt. 
Ruth had, however, seen the announcement of the mar- 
riage in the paper. For her own sake she had been 
relieved to see it; it freed her from all fear. Two 
letters from Mr. Bevington had followed her from 
Dolmouth, and she had destroyed them unopened; 
she feared if she sent them back the post-mark might 
betray her hiding-place. She was sorry for Mr. 
Bevington ’s wife, but then, she told herself, marriage 
might benefit him ; he might become really attached 
to her, and begin a new course of life. She turned, 
however, from the thought as soon as possible. She 
felt sorry that Susan had recalled it. 

The post had brought her another letter from her 
husband. He told her he had not yet heard from 
her, and that her silence made him anxious. He 
was more hopeful about his friend, and he said he 
might return sooner than he expected when he last 
wrote. If she had written to Vienna, as he had told 
her to do, he should find her letter there as he 
returned. 

This letter had agitated Ruth. In the afternoon her 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


847 


old friend the rector came to see her, and he rejoiced 
to hear her news. , 

“It is time your husband came home,” he said. 
I do not like to think of you shut up alone with these 
uncouth people, though I can see you are a great help 
to them.” 

She smiled rather sadly. 

“They are all I have left to care for now,” she 
said. “Even my favorite cows have disappeared. 
Nothing is as it used to be at Appledore; yet I find 
life very tolerable here.” 

“You were never discontented, Ruth; you had a 
way of making the best of things at all times,” he 
said, smiling. “I, on the contrary, sometimes find 
the rectory very dull. It will be a real charity if 
you wdll come in and lunch with me next Sunday,” 
the kind old man added. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


Ruth’s days were so full of occupation that they 
passed by more quickly than she had expected. She 
had not heard again from Michael, but a change had 
passed over her ; it had come so gradually that she 
had hardly been conscious of its progress till she 
found herself one morning wishing for a letter from 
her husband, and became aware that she no longer 
shrank from his return. She told herself that she 
did not love him ; she thought it was impossible to 
love twice in a lifetime, but she knew that if he 
would forgive her and take her for his wife she 
should be able to do her duty, and she hoped she 
might make him happy ; that seemed to be the work 
that life held for her in the future. 

The great obstacle between them was removed. 
She did not disguise from herself that she had gone 
on loving Reginald Bevington after her marriage to 
Michael; she could never forget it, but it was no 
longer a pleasant memory. There was no longer a 
struggle against it ; it was a sad and shameful blot 
in her past. Her mind could not be tempted to linger 
on a time of which she felt so heartily ashamed. She 
was anxious on one point, though she strove to be 
resigned. Her husband’s letters were cold and brief ; 
it was possible that when he returned he might pro- 
pose a separation. Ruth felt that she must abide by 
his decision ; she had no right to appeal against it, 
348 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


349 


and she had resolved if it proved adverse to get the 
rector to put her in the way of educating herself for 
the post of a village school-mistress. She could not 
be dependent on Michael, unless she was his wife. 

It was one of those March afternoons when the 
outside world looks the quintessence of brightness 
and the east wind cuts like a double-edged knife. 
Ruth came in shivering from her walk, though the 
scorching sunshine had flushed her face. She had 
brought in an abundance of wild primroses and 
wood-anemones for Sukey, and the child delighted 
to hold some of the cool, fresh stalks in her feverish 
hands, while Mrs. Clifford was Ailing saucers and 
soup-plates with the rest. 

“They are lovely and sweet.” The child pressed 
them to her lips, then came a deep sigh, “ 0 ma’am ! 
shall I never see them growing again? ” 

Her blue eyes swam with tears as she looked at 
Mrs. Clifford. 

“I hope so, but I tell you what it is, Sukey,” her 
friend said cheerfully: “to-day you’ve got to be 
very glad it was I who had to go out instead of you ; 
the wind might have cut you into small bits. But I 
have really found a plan for you, and next time I see 
Dr. Buchan I’m going to talk to him about it. What 
do you think? You can have a little carriage — a sort 
of perambulator — and you and your board can be put 
on it, and then you can go as far as the wood. Isn’t 
that a flne idea, eh? ” 

Sukey clasped her thin hands in a kind of ecstacy ; 
she thanked Mrs. Clifford with tears in her eyes, but 
Ruth was not looking at her now ; she had risen and 
was standing, listening with a look of horror in her 


350 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


widely-opened eyes, while the flowers lay loosely 
between her Angers. 

‘‘Sukey” — she looked so troubled that the child 
stared in surprise — “ if your father comes in and asks 
for me you must say I am gone out; I am going 
now.” 

“Won’t you be tired, ma’am? and oh! won’t you 
tell me more about the carriage what’ull take me to 
the wood afore you goes? ” 

For the first time Mrs. Clifford turned abruptly 
away from her charge. She went out of the room 
even while Sukey was crying out to her that she had 
promised to set her a sum. Ruth paused when she 
reached the hall, and then instead of going out again 
she changed her mind and went softly upstairs. She 
crept quietly along the gallery, opened and closed 
her door with the utmost caution, and then she sat 
down to think. 

She had heard Reginald Bevington’s voice talking 
with Bird just outside the door of the house-place, 
and a sudden terror had seized her. At first she had 
felt strongly indignant, but on reflection she decided 
that he could not know she was at Appledore. She 
had not even written to tell Dorothy ; she so greatly 
feared the news might leak out before Michael’s 
return. 

The only person who knew was the person who for- 
warded her letters from Parley, and she believed 
that must be Mr. Wood, for Dorothy had told her 
that in view of his numerous absences, so much 
more prolonged since his marriage, Michael had 
found it necessary to appoint Mr. Wood his man- 
ager. The young fellow had very little business 


APPLEDOEE FARM. 


351 


of his own, and had proved very useful. Dorothy 
had said that in the end he would probably become 
Michael’s partner. Ruth thought it possible that 
Mr. Wood might have told Mr. Bevington where 
she was; and yet this was hardly likely, for when 
she wrote to ask Mr. Wood to forward her let- 
ters to Appledore, she had asked him not to give her 
new address to Dr. Buchan, or to any one likely to 
come out from Burley to see her ; it was far more 
probable that Mr. Bevington, who would now doubt- 
less have land of his own to see after, had come over 
to ask Bird a few-questions relative to farming mat- 
ters, for with all his easy laziness ' Bird was consid- 
ered a rare hand in the matter of seed-sowing, his 
luck therein being proverbial. 

The girl was tempted to smile at her own self- 
conscious fear, but she could not shake off a sorrow- 
ful dread that Michael might hear of this visit and 
misconstrue it before he received the letter she had 
written him when she determined to remain at 
Appledore. 

She could not keep still, and restlessness was such 
an unusual feeling that she yielded to the pov^er with 
which it took possession of her. She felt that she 
must be a prisoner till Mr. Bevington had departed, 
and she crept into one of the empty bedrooms on the 
further side of the dark gallery, which looked on to 
the farm-yard. As she had expected, the lattice was 
closed. Ruth crept close to it and listened ; he was 
still there. A sound of voices came up from below, 
but she could not distinguish them, as she could just 
now in the house-place. She took out her handker- 
chief, and rubbed away the dust from one of the 


352 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


diamond-shaped panes. As she peered through it 
she suddenly drew back, so that she could see with- 
out any chance of being seen. Mr. Bevington had 
come out from the house and was crossing the farm- 
yard, followed by George Bird. 

Ruth looked across to the gate leading to the road, 
and she saw a boy there holding a horse. A feel-, 
ing of relief came to her. If Mr. Bevington had 
meant his visit for her, he would have had his horse 
taken to the stable. It was evident, she thought, 
he had only come to ask a question or two of Bird, 
who had always been a favorite of his. 

The two men were now standing still. All at once 
she saw Bevington put his hand in his pocket. Ho 
took a letter from it and gave it to Bird ; then she 
saw him put money into Bird’s ready pahn and point 
to the letter he had given him. 

The room seemed to go round with Ruth ; a deadly 
sickness seized her, and she clung close to the bare 
wall against which she stood. She soon recovered 
herself; she was not afraid now, because she no 
longer feared herself. She knew that the shock 
which had for a moment mastered her had been 
caused by horror at the baseness of these two men. 
They were both seeking to betray her, and in these 
last weeks she had been telling herself how much 
more worthy of trust Bird was than Sally Voce — 
Sally, whose ingratitude and worldliness had for the 
time completely shaken the girl’s belief in human 
nature. 

Ruth knew that Mr. Bevington’s home lay far away 
northward, so that she rejoiced when she saw him 
mount his horse and take the road toward Purley. 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


353 


She waited till he had been for some time out of 
sight before she ventured into the garden. She felt 
a longing for air and space to quiet her indignant 
disgust. She paced up and down for some time, 
thinking of Mr. Bevington’s behavior, till her face 
burned with shame, and her proud head sank forward 
with the weight of her humiliation. When at last 
she went back to Sukey, she saw, as she expected, 
a letter lying on the tidy-table which she had given 
the child to hold her books and flowers. 

“ See here, ma’am, I’ve got a present for you,” the 
child said. Father told me as I was only to let you 
see it. I was to hide it, he says, if mother comes in. 
You would like to have it private, father said, so I 
thought mebbe it were a valentine, come too late.” 

The child’s inquisitive glance gave Ruth exquisite 
pain. At that moment her wrath burned hotly 
against George Bird — she even longed to lay a horse- 
whip across his shoulders. How dared he teach 
Sukey to keep a secret from her mother, and to make 
her inquisitive about other people’s business ! 

She took up the lettter, looked at the address, and 
then put it down on the table beside her, while she 
set Sukey the promised sum. As the line of pale 
gray flgures grew under her Angers, Ruth told her- 
self she could send back Mr. Bevington’s letter with- 
out any fear of betraying her place of refuge. She 
would post it herself from Allmarshfleld. She hoped, 
when he saw it had not been opened, he would cease 
his unmanly persecution. She went to the parlor, 
glad to get away from Sukey ’s watchful eyes ; and 
then, tired as she was, she started for the little way- 
side post-box. As she returned, a new thought 
23 


354 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


came to her, and she went round by the farm-yard 
entrance. 

She found Bird, as she expected, lounging about. 
Though he was not chewing a straw he was smok- 
ing a pipe, and he looked less sleepy than usual. 
He touched his hat when he saw her, and she fan- 
cied she saw a faint grin on his face. She frowned 
till her fair forehead was furrowed with lines. 
‘^Look here, George,” she said sternly, “if you bring 
me any more letters, or if you have anything more 
to do with Mr. Bevington, I’ll write to the agent, 
and I’ll have you turned away from Appledore. I 
am in earnest, remember !” 

She had reached the kitchen door before the as- 
tonished man recovered his surprise. She knew that 
he would not dare to follow her into his wife’s do- 
main, even if he wished to justify himself. But it 
was as much as she could do to stand chatting a 
minute or two with Susan, and then, avoiding the 
house-place, she went into the parlor. 

She closed the door behind her, seated herself be- 
side the hearth, and hid her face in her hands. Her 
head sank forward till she sat crouched together, her 
face hidden by the long, trembling fingers, almost 
touched her knees. How she had loved and trusted 
this man! Man? He was not worthy of the name! 
He was willing to betray a wife who trusted him 
and had enriched him, and he desired, if he could, 
to ruin another man’s wife; yet she had loved him, 
and had counted his love a possession ! Beside the 
figure of this poor, pitiful seducer, whose one aim in 
life, she told herself, had been that of self-pleasing, 
there rose up the image of her husband — her hus- 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


355 


band as she had last seen him, flushed with right- 
eous anger, yet with the nobility of truth in this 
very anger that had left an indelible memory. How 
could she hope that so pure and so lofty a mind as 
Michael’s could forgive her for having set a dis- 
honoring love before his earnest devotion ! She could 
not hope for pardon ; yet, humanly speaking, his pro- 
tection and counsel were urgently necessary to her. 
At last she went to the writing-table, and wrote a 
letter to her husband on her knees. Something 
seemed to tell her that he was on his way home. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


Michael was on his way home. He had deter- 
mined to take his wife by surprise, and to see whether 
he could not end this miserable state of things, one 
way or the other. Far away from the associations 
connected with his. past feelings, in the silent night- 
watches beside his friend’s sick-bed, he had severely 
blamed himself for his treatment of Ruth. He had 
left her unprotected, exposed perhaps to temptation, 
at least to annoyance, and he burned with impatience 
to return. 

On his way home, when he reached Vienna, he 
inquired at the post-office, and his wife’s letter was 
handed to him. The date showed him that it had 
been lying there for weeks, though he had written 
for his letters more than once from the little town by 
the Danube. His impatience so increased as he read 
this letter that when he reached London he said 
good-by to his friend, and hurried on to Purley by 
the night-train. 

Ruth had sent her last letter to Purley, and he 
found it waiting for him there. 

He had felt very hungry on arriving, but when he 
had read this letter he pushed aside his breakfast 
and pulled out of his breast-pocket the much longer 
letter he had found waiting for him at Vienna. 
It began : 

‘‘ My dear Husband : I told you, when I last 
356 


APPLEDORE FARM, 


357 


wrote, how much I liked Dorothy, and that I hoped 
she would stay here with me till your return. Doro- 
thy has since then tired of Dolmouth ; she asks me 
to tell you she is going back to Scotland, when she 
has paid a visit to her friend at Carlisle. I am so 
sure that I ought not to stay here alone that I am 
going to Sally Voce’s. I will stay with her till I 
hear from you — whether you will join me there, or 
whether you wish me to meet you at Purley.” 

Michael was even more impressed by the changed 
tone of this letter than he had been when he first read 
it at Vienna, it seemed to him so wife-like. Ruth’s 
letters had been kind, but they might have been 
written by a friend who was wholly independent of 
her correspondent. This letter was written at inter- 
vals. It began at Dolmouth, then there was a bit 
form the railway station she had waited at. It went 
on again from Appledore in a changed tone: “I 
find it pleasant and peaceful here, ” she wrote. “ Sally 
said she had not room for me, and I am in the old 
house, as the tenant has given it up. I should like 
you to find me here wdien you come back — it would 
be like those old times when you were always so kind 
to me. Perhaps you have forgotten them, but I often 
think of them. If, however, you consider it better 
I should meet you in Purley, please send me word ; 
it must, of course, be just as you wish.” 

There was a good deal more in the way of inquiry 
about his journey, and Ruth added that she should - 
not write again till she heard he had received this 
letter. Then came the bit which had so roused his 
impatience to reach England: “The reason why 
I am sure you would have wished me to leave Dol- 


358 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


mouth is that Mr. Bevington came again to see me 
there. He had come twice while my father was 
with me, but he had been so strongly forbidden to 
come again, that I thought there was no chance he 
would. Believe me, Michael, I shrink from seeing 
him as much as you can wish. You will be glad to 
hear that it is said he will soon be married.” This 
morning’s letter was much shorter. It began : 

“My dear Husband: I feel sure that you are 
on your way home. I send this letter to await your 
arrival. Can you forigve my long blindness, my 
hateful ingratitude? Will you trust me to try and 
make you happy? You cannot guess how anxiously 
I wait for your answer ! 

“Your Ruth.” 

She had not spoken of Mr. Bevington’s last visit; 
she had felt as she wrote, that his name would poison 
the joy she should feel in Michael’s pardon. 

Michael Clifford had not even announced his ar- 
rival to Mr. Wood; he was all the better pleased to 
get off to Appledore before Mr. Wood was likely to 
appear at the office. 

It was a lowering morning, and a good deal of 
comment was exercised by his neighbors in Broad 
Street on the subject of proceedings. Instead of fol- 
lowing his long-established custom of leaving the 
town on horseback, he had actually sent to that most 
ancient hostlery, “The Prince of Wales,” for a trap 
with a hood ; had put therein one of his travelling- 
bags, just as it came up from the railway station, 
and had then driven away down Broad Street, and 


APPLEDORE PARZL 


Zod 

under the low-browed archway that ends it, toward 
the bridge leading to the Appledore road. He had 
arrived so quietly in Purley — there being no cabs at 
that early hour at the station — that only his near 
neighbors had heard of his return. There had been 
few to notice his flushed face and its bright, expect- 
ant expression as he started. 

Just before he came in sight of Appledore, at the 
end of his two hours’ drive, he began to doubt his 
own wisdom. Surely his idea of taking Ruth by sur- 
prise had been boyish and foolish. Suppose he had 
been rnistaken in the meaning of her words ; suppose 
he had misread the penitence of her honest, generous 
nature, for the love which she could never feel for 
him ! Only a loving woman, he thought, would be 
pleased to be thus taken by surprise. Perhaps he 
had made a mistake. If he had announced his ar- 
rival, he should have guessed in a moment from her 
first reception whether her feelings had really 
changed toward him. It was now too late to turn 
back, and indeed Michael was too much over- wrought 
to give up his purpose. 

He drove round by the farm-yard, where he found 
George Bird with a bit of straw in his mouth, loung- 
ing against a post. It seemed to Mr. Clifford that 
the man was disturbed at seeing him, but his man- 
ner was unusually respectful. He said, in answer 
to Michael’s question, that so far as he knew Mrs. 
Clifford was in. ‘^She’ll be mebbe in the house- 
place,” he added. 

Michael left him at the outer gate, so there was 
no one to warn Ruth of her husband’s coming. 

He opened the door that led into the farm-yard. 


360 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


and he saw her. She started and turned pale as his 
tall figure filled up the opening. For a moment she 
sat still ; then she rose from her chair, smiled tim- 
idly, and went to him with the both hands stretched 
out. 

The sun had not shown himself that morning ; the 
sky was still a lowering gray; yet to Michael the 
bare, big room seemed fiooded with golden light — 
the glory of Ruth’s loveliness. ... He had a vague, 
dim vision of a small figure lying stretched out below 
the window, and of two blue eyes wildly staring at 
him ; but he was only conscious of Ruth — that his 
arms were around her, and that her sweet eyes smiled 
at him as he pressed her closely to his heart and 
covered her blushing face with kisses. 

He released her, drew her hand through his arm, 
and led the way to the parlor. It was very sweet to 
the girl to feel thus taken possession of, and she sat 
for some time in silence, resting her head on his 
shoulder, and wondering whether she were dreaming. 

They had been sitting there a long time, with 
snatches of talk now and then. At last Ruth had 
drawn herself away, and she asked him to listen to 
her. Michael tried to stop her penitent confession, 
but he could not, and when she had ended there was 
another silence. He did not say one word of re- 
proach — he took her in his arms and strained her 
tightly to his heart. But Ruth knew that it was not 
a dream now; Michael had forgiven her, and she 
knew, too, that she loved him. At last she looked 
up at him with a bright smile. 

All this time I am forgetting that you must be 
hungry. If you really mean me to be your wife, I 


APPLEDORE FARM. 


361 


must take care of you and see that you are not 
starved ; Susan shall give us something to eat. She 
can cook quite nicely now.” 

Half-way to the door^she came back again and 
knelt down beside him, hiding her face from his 
adoring eyes. “ I have told you everything I have 
done or thought against you,” she said very gravely. 
“ I believe you would serve me rightly if you decide 
to cast me off after all; but, Michael, I could not 
bear it — I have learned that even ” 

He was stooping to raise her ; he stopped her words 
with kisses. 

Her face cleared, and she gave him a saucy look. 

Remember, ” she said, it is you who have settled 
it. You cannot send me away now. You are too 
kind to make me unhappy, and I — I should be mis- 
erable without you !” 


THE END. 


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BY 

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AUTHOR OK 

AN OLD COURTYARD,” “MISS EYON OK KYON COURT,” 
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